


Taking Possession

by without_a_license



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/without_a_license/pseuds/without_a_license
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is content to slowly encourage Will's dependence on him, until a mental breakdown throws Will at his feet. The good doctor can hardly resist such a gift, but Will doesn't seem all that resistant either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is being translated into Chinese by a team of eight fangirls, including Daisya and alucard1771. You can find their work [here.](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=88184)

Hannibal barely needed to put any work into his plan to catch Will Graham. The pieces had been arranged on the board, just waiting for him to make his move.

There was no need to play Good Cop/Bad Cop, because Will's life was already so extreme. He lived in a lonely hell populated only by psychopaths and serial killers, and it was steadily growing intolerable. Will mumbled through days at the academy and sweated through nights in Wolf Trap, and frequently allowed Jack Crawford to intimidate him into adding more demons to the legion inside his head. He was singularly incapable of caring for his own body, and he denied himself all forms of comfort save for stray dogs and Advil. 

So when Hannibal stepped in, with his soothing blue office and his warm meals and his silent eyes, he automatically became the best thing in Will's life. He honestly could not have arranged it better if he had kidnapped Will and chained him up in the basement. It had all the potential of classic Stockholm Syndrome, with none of the fuss that came from actually kidnapping someone. 

Their relationship continued in this manner for several months. Hannibal resisted the urge to escalate, and instead allowed Will to progress at his own pace. He treasured each conversation and every small intimacy as their interactions meandered away from 'professional' and toward 'friendly'. One day in early March, Will called the doctor by his first name and did not flinch when he rested his fingertips against Will's back, guiding him through the door. That weekend Hannibal killed a supple college swimmer in celebration. He used some of the meat to prepare sandwiches. Will preferred simple food. 

To an outsider, the pace of their friendship would seem almost unnaturally slow, but Hannibal had never lacked for patience. Will was an intelligent man, and it would take many repetitions of outwardly innocuous behaviors before his subconscious would override his conscious mind and accept Hannibal as the source of all things pleasurable in life. His timeline allowed him to spend a year and a half taming Will, although he hoped that circumstances would bring him his man sooner. 

Perhaps Hannibal had a dark angel watching over him, because the universe soon gift-wrapped the fragile empath and delivered him to Hannibal's doorstep. 

***

Your brother's voice echoes in your head.

"You can't own a _person_ , Mikey. It doesn't work like that." 

He was right in some ways and wrong in others. You could own a person, you just couldn't _keep_ him. You could try, though. Locking him up in the little room helped. That way you always knew where he was, and if you had to be away, you could imagine him, lying on his back on the comforter with the yellow roses, kicking his feet. So beautiful. 

It wasn't that you _wanted_ to lock him up. He looked nice out in the sunlight. You wanted to see him running through the yard, tossing a frisbee with the wind in his hair. But other people were outside, and they'd be looking at your boy. Some of them might even touch him. It makes you sick, thinking about the way men would leer at him on the bus. Imagining a girl grabbing his arm, pretending she'd tripped. All those people, watching _your boy._ Completely unacceptable.

So you keep him in the little room. But it's not good enough. He could be thinking about other people, inside his head. He says he isn't, but he could be lying. And he's changing, too. He's different already from the boy you used to follow around town. He's becoming someone else, and your boy is going away. Where is he going? Could be anywhere. 

You realize what you have to do one day when you're making marks on your boy's back. He's so pretty like that, with just a little bit of blood dripping down. You're making a grid for him. There are science reasons, and math reasons, for why he's yours and no one else's, and you think the grid might help him see it. Plus, you like the small noises he makes, and the way his face looks when you turn him around. He's such a good boy. 

And the only way to keep him good is to kill him, before he changes completely into somebody different. You're going to make his death so beautiful, beautiful for both of you, and he'll be yours forever. He won't be allowed to change anymore, and no one else will try to take him. It's the only way to keep him, and of course you have to keep him. 

***

Special Agent Graham hits the floor. His knees bounce off the dingy linoleum, and he smells filthy plastic beneath his face. 

"Is he having a seizure or something?" The voice sounds disgusted and a little bit excited. 

_God, I can barely even remember what my mother looks like. I wonder what she thinks of me, if she thinks I dropped out of college to do drugs or something. I hope she knows I was trying. Shit, he's coming back._

"Will? WILL! Somebody get him off the floor, check his vitals."

_It's gonna be my last day with him, so I have to make this day last forever. It has to be perfect. Take a shower, shave, wear my best clothes. He said I looked good in blue, once. He's so quiet, but I know he'll understand what I'm trying to do._

"Special Agent Will Graham? Can you hear me? My name is Krista, I'm an EMT. Do you know what day it is? He's unresponsive." 

_Not the fucking knife again. Don't say anything. Don't talk. You know he won't kill you. If he was going to kill you, he wouldn't have waited months and months to do it. He would've done it right away. Don't act scared, he hates when you act scared of him._

"Did someone call Dr. Lecter? Well, his afternoon appointment can go fuck herself! Will's practically catatonic here. God DAMNIT!" 

_Pretty boy, sweet boy, it'll only hurt for a moment. Just focus on me and forget all about the pain. Don't you know how much I love you? I love you. I love you. You'll always be mine._

Everyone is angry and everything hurts. A raven stag is stalking toward him. He's slashing her white throat. He's holding a gun. He's hiding under the bed. 

_\--No! Stop!--_

_\--I love you.--_

_\--Fucking bitch!--_

_\--Is he gone?--_

_\--Just die already!--_

_\--God, it feels so good.--_

"Will? Will? It's Hannibal. I want to help you. I'm going to inject a low dose of clonazepam into your left arm now. Your heart rate is very high."

It feels like he's been drowning for days and someone has pulled him out of the water. Hannibal. Hannibal is here. Will sits up very suddenly, knocks the empty syringe out of Hannibal's hand, and pulls himself toward the other man, clinging to his lapels. He hears the other bodies in the room gasp and mutter, and then he hears nothing.

He rubs his face into Hannibal's chest. Warm. Firm. Smells like…safe things. Cotton and linen and expensive dry cleaning. Turkey. Mint leaves. That exotic masculine scent that must be Hannibal's cologne. Will presses closer, trying to close Hannibal's suit jacket around himself. He wants to disappear into this man. He's the only good thing, the only safe thing. Hannibal closes his arms securely around Will, and Will knows the demons can never attack him here. He sobs, and Hannibal soothes. 

"Shhhh. Shhhhh. Hush now, good Will. You're mine, yes? You are mine, and I take very good care of my things. I'll never allow anyone to damage you. I've got you. You're safe now. Hush, Will." 

Hannibal rocks Will back and forth, murmuring quietly. Will thinks about his lips, wonders what they look like when he shushes. He feels hazy and muted, feels the benzos in his veins.

He comes back very slowly. Hannibal's shirt is wet. He pulls away, and Hannibal allows it, but leaves his hands on Will's biceps. He is staring directly into Will's eyes, and the other man cannot bring himself to look away. He swallows audibly. 

"I had a breakdown."

"Yes. Do you remember why?"

"It wasn't…it was a pretty basic case. Old man stalked, kidnapped, and killed a college student. I don't know why it made me…it was like everything came loose at once. I didn't have any control. I forgot who I was again"

"Why did Jack call you in? Isn't he only supposed to call you for the special cases?"

"Yeah. Lately, though… You know his wife is dying. He calls, and…I don't know what to say."

"It is not your fault that Jack's wife has cancer."

"I know it's not my _fault_ , but I don't want to make things harder for him."

"So instead you make things harder for yourself? You must protect yourself, Will."

"I know. Otherwise I break down and then I'm no good to anyone. They gonna send me to the psych ward again?" 

"No. You are mine now, and so I am taking you home. I will care for you there, and Jack can borrow you when you are well again, but only if I believe he will not hurt you." 

Will blinks, and tilts his head. He's tired, far too tired to argue with Hannibal. The doctor always sounds so impeccably reasonable, and Will hasn't really slept in a couple of weeks. Besides, the food at Hannibal's house is way better than the pitiful soup and stale crackers he'd get on the ward. He nods, and Hannibal smiles. 

Has he always looked like this? It's like he's the only thing in the room that has color, or like he's got his own personal spotlight. Will accept that Hannibal might sneak into every room before anyone else arrives to ensure adequate lighting. He's feeling pretty accepting of just about everything right now. The drugs, maybe, or he's just done fighting. 

The doctor stands, lifting Will to his feet by both hands. They're holding hands, and the thought brings only placid amusement to Will's mind. Hannibal strips off his suit jacket, carefully slides Will's arms into the sleeves, then wraps an arm around Will's shoulder and guides him out the door. 

Jack had herded everyone into the front yard shortly after the psychiatrist arrived, and they now stare at the pair avidly. Fucking vultures. He turns his head into Hannibal's side and closes his eyes, trusting his friend to handle everything. 

"Dr. Lecter. You taking him to Johns Hopkins?" 

"No. I am taking him home with me. Will is going to take a week of vacation from everything, and then he will return to teaching classes only. I will tell you when and if he is ready to resume looking at crime scenes. You are not to call him before he is ready." 

Hannibal's voice rumbles through his chest like a boat motor, and Will smiles. Everything about Hannibal makes him happy. 

Jack is not happy. He widens his stance, puffs out his chest subtly. 

"Are you giving me orders, doctor?" 

Will flinches slightly at his tone, and Hannibal draws him in more fully, so his back is to Jack and his face is against Hannibal's chest once more. Safe. 

"You promised to protect Will, and you did not. I do not look kindly on those who break their promises. We are leaving now, and I suggest you do not say anything further. I will call you if I wish to speak with you." 

It occurs to Will that Hannibal is terrifying. Scarier than Jack. If he talked to Will in that voice, he would have a panic attack. But Will is the one under his protection, and Jack is the one shamed into silence. 

Will keeps his head down, and Hannibal herds him into a car, opens the door for him and buckles his seatbelt. 

Will leans his head against the window and doesn't look at anything. For maybe the first time in his life, he feels kind of peaceful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham figures it out. Didn't particularly feel like dragging this out. Still have more to say, and I wanted Will to know during their next conversation.

Hannibal spoke first, his voice lifting Will's head from the cool of the window.

"How are you feeling now?"

Will blinked, and rubbed his knees. He felt…like he was in over his head, but the water was calm. It seemed better than thrashing around in the rapids, but he was still going to drown eventually.

"What did you mean, when you said I was yours? What does that even mean?"

Hannibal chuckled softly. He looked so strong and capable, hands at ten and two, back pressed against the seat. Will stared at Hannibal's arms, flexing inside of his salmon-colored shirt, and sniffed surreptitiously at the suit coat he was still wearing. He was worried that he might have developed a scent kink. Or a wearing-Hannibal's-clothes kink. 

"Do you own your dogs, Will?"

"Uh, yes."

"How do you own them? How do they become yours?"

"Well, they're strays, so. I see them, I realize they don't have homes. I take them home with me, wash them, feed them. Give them names, let them stay. I have to train them, eventually. Help them fit in to the pack. Sometimes, if a dog has been abused, I have to convince it that I'm okay before it'll come home. Leave food out on the porch, make nonthreatening noises. Let him see that I won't hurt him." 

Hannibal is smiling fully now, his voice rich with amusement.

"And what do you think I have been doing with you, my dear Will?"

Will's heart speeds up as he realizes everything he has allowed over the last few months. He ate _six meals_ with his _psychiatrist_ last week alone! His pillow smells like Hannibal, because the man caught Will washing his hair with bar soap and bought him shampoo. All the casual meetings, all the times Hannibal hovered his hand over Will's shoulder or forearm before he started touching him. Like he was taming a scared dog! He took Will in like a fucking stray! And Will let it all happen. 

He starts to hyperventilate, and his visions goes gray from the outside in. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears, and he rakes his bitten-off nails over his neck and collarbone, trying to feel something. He can't feel anything but panic. His body is jerking around. He feels his wrist slam hard into the window. No wonder everyone thinks he has seizures. He's a fucking lunatic, and he's just become somebody's pet, and he can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. 

There's a strong hand gripping the back of his neck. Gripping his scruff. He's not a _dog_! 

The hand squeezes, then releases. Squeeze, release. It's a rhythm. His hearing comes back online. A soft Nordic accent in his ear. 

"Please breathe now. Inhale, exhale. Like that. Inhale, exhale. I've got you. You are safe. Inhale, exhale. Good boy." 

The car is on the side of the road. Hannibal pulled over, because Will had a panic attack, because he has apparently become a stray that the doctor adopted. Is he a pet now? Is that even a bad thing? He does a pretty shitty job of taking care of himself, which is why he got adopted in the first place. 

"Are you going to be okay now?"

"What about my dogs?"

Hannibal raises his eyebrows slightly. He is stroking Will's neck now, petting him. It is inappropriately soothing. Will tries to explain his thought process.

"If I'm like your pet now or something, what about my pets? Who takes care of them? I was taking care of them, you know. I wouldn't let my dogs starve."

"But you would let yourself starve."

It's a statement, not a question. Apparently their new relationship does not require Hannibal to ask rhetorical questions. Will shrugs, and Hannibal leans back into his own seat, taking Will's hand with him. He strokes the inside of his wrist and looks out the windshield.

"Your neighbor looks after your dogs when you are out of town, correct?"

"Yeah, but that's just for a couple of days at a time. She doesn't want six dogs, Hannibal." 

"You are on vacation this week. She will feed them while you are with me, and then, we shall see. I would like to resume driving now. Is that okay?"

Will waves his hand vaguely. "Yeah, go ahead. I just…I don't even know what's happening to me right now. I might…I'm not sure I'm ever going to be the same after this. This might be the breakdown they've all been waiting for. I thought it would be a lot more dramatic. Fireworks, or something. At least more than one dead body."

Hannibal is looking very pleased with himself as he buckles his seatbelt and signals back into traffic. Who the fuck even uses their turn signal on a completely empty country road? Possessive psychiatrists, apparently. 

"You don't need to worry about that now, dear Will. When we get home, you will bathe and I will cook. We will eat, then we will talk, then we will sleep. And I will take care of everything. All you have to do is be good, and allow me to look after you." 

Will drops his head back against the window. His thoughts spin out, loose and lazy, picking up trails and dropping them other places, winding into a memory from his childhood. A town they'd stayed in for a pretty long time…a tall man with big strong hands and an accent. He always smelled like blood, because he was a butcher. He liked Will, though. Liked to rub his curly head. Told his nephews off when they teased the strange boy, and always had some bones for Will to give to stray dogs. 

The memories melt and twist and Will _knows_. The knowledge rises up like it's been waiting in his stomach. Of course it has. Of course it has. He's _eaten_ them. And liked it. 

"Pull over." 

He does so without asking why, and Will falls out the passenger door and vomits until all he brings up is sour water. Hannibal presses a firm hand between Will's shoulder blades. Oh god. Butcher's hands. 

"Are you having a reaction to the medication? You didn't tell me that benzodiazepines made you nauseated." 

Will looks at him, looks right into his still brown eyes and _sees_. The calm monster, sleeping atop his mountain of bones.

"You killed them," Will whispers, "You killed all of them. And you liked it. And you _ate_ them! _I_ ate them!"

Now Hannibal is grinning, laughing loud and clear. He pulls Will into his lap, cradles him like a child, crouching there in the dust by the side of the road.

"Clever boy! How did you know?" He's delighted, excited, thrilled. He wanted Will to know who he really is. 

"Butcher." Will says blankly. He can't see anything. Hannibal smells good. "You reminded me of a butcher I knew when I was a kid. I couldn't see it before--because I was too keyed up. You calmed me down and then I knew." 

Hannibal is still cuddling him on his lap. Will looks up at him again, and his eyes shine like he's just witnessed a miracle. 

"I did that!" He sounds pleased and impressed with himself, "Of course! You needed my help to know what I am. I had to give you permission. But you know now, and still you will stay." 

Will wants to protest. He hasn't said that, _shouldn't_ say that. 

But then Hannibal kisses him, and it's so warm _(warm like blood)_. His lips are strong _(from chewing flesh)_ and Will feels helpless beneath him. He's sitting on Hannibal's knee, supported between his arms, dominated by his mouth. The man is kneading his thigh unconsciously with one hand, and Will knows he will not go. Not today. He has been tamed by a monster. 

Hannibal pulls back and Will leans forward, searching. The doctor smiles broadly and taps one finger against Will's lips. 

"I have gotten ahead of myself, but you bring me so much joy. Now, though, you need rest, and I need to drive. You are forgiven for the interruption, because it was important, but I would like for us to reach home in time for supper." 

And Will finds himself buckled into the seat once more. It occurs to him that he might be in the psych ward right now, hooked up to a bunch of crazy drugs. This might be a messed up fever dream about climbing into bed with a cannibal. He's been living in his mind his entire life, so this wouldn't even make the top ten weirdest dreams he's ever had. It is the most vivid, though. And the most pleasant. He doesn't particularly want to wake up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take a shower.

Will falls asleep in the car. Two panic attacks in six hours have taken their toll, and his parasympathetic nervous system takes forcible control over his body. If the attacks didn't feel like dying, he would almost look forward to this time, when all of his limbs feel sore and heavy. The dead sleep that follows a good panic attack is otherwise unattainable for the chronic insomniac. Right now, he couldn't keep his eyes open even if he were riding in a car with a cannibalistic serial killer who wanted to keep him as a pet. 

He dreams that he is in a children's bookstore, exploring the Science section. The lights are too dim for him to read any of the titles, and when he asks the lady at the desk to please turn the lights up, he realizes that he is in a experimental psychiatric ward, and the other patients are trapped in clear oubliettes drilled into the floor. Will accepts this with only mild annoyance, and goes to talk to a 12-year-old about the best books on bugs. The boy's father is secretly an orderly, and he injects Will with drugs and warns him not to put anything in his mouth. Will goes off in search of the True Crime books, but wakes up before he finds them. 

They are sitting in the driveway, with the car turned off, and Hannibal is looking at Will with an inscrutable expression on his face. Will has suffered from sleep disorders for decades, so the fact that he woke up does not mean that this is not also a dream. The current situation seems equally as reasonable as the bookstore/psych ward. 

"You watching me sleep, Hannibal?"

The doctor smiles.

"Only for a few minutes. You looked so peaceful there; I did not want to wake you. But now, I think, it is time to bathe. When was the last time you took a shower?" 

Will shrugs. Sometimes he showers three times a day. Sometimes he doesn't shower for three or four days. It doesn't really seem to matter, because he never gets clean. 

"That's alright. You don't need to worry about that now. I purchased some conditioner recently that I think will be good for your hair. It's too heavy for mine, but yours is not so fine." 

Hannibal is guiding him into his house, helping him to remove his shoes. The house is a pristine two-story filled with light and windows. He must have some other location where he handles the mess associated with killing. This lovely, tasteful dwelling does not seem like a place where bodies could be carved up. Hannibal leads Will up the stairs, into the master bedroom. 

Will wonders if Hannibal has delusions of grandeur, and he remembers a story from his childhood. The prince and the pauper. He wonders if Hannibal is a deposed Lithuanian prince. Does Lithuania even have royalty? Will is not sure. Hannibal might actually be Danish, anyway. Reality and fairy tales are blending together, and Hannibal is both prince charming and the monster under the bed. 

The monster speaks. "I have purchased some clothes for you. Not many, I'm afraid, but we can find more later. Still, you will have something clean to wear tonight at dinner." 

Will comes out of his fog enough to notice that Hannibal is undressing, sorting his clothes into separate hampers, and when Will speaks, his voice is rough and slow.

"Do you… You bought clothes for me? How long have you been planning this? And conditioner… Why are you taking off your clothes?" 

Hannibal steps toward him, completely naked, yet still with perfect composure. He slips the suit jacket from Will's shoulders and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

"When you are taming a dog, do you not purchase a food bowl and a collar for him? After all, you never know what day he will finally dare to creep through your door. You wouldn't want to be unprepared. And the first thing you do with your dogs is bathe them, yes? I do not wish to get my clothes wet." 

Will allows Hannibal to take off his shirt, and his undershirt, but he shies away when large hands move to his khakis. 

"I don't…want that," he mumbles, crossing his arms protectively over his crotch.

Hannibal raises his hands to Will's shoulders, but he doesn't step away.

"I have no desire to rape you, my dear Will. You have seen my crime scenes. You know that I am not interested in sexual violence. I do think that we have potential to find pleasure together, but that will happen as you become more comfortable. For now, I only wish to wash you. This is my home, and as you are staying here, you must be clean." 

Hannibal's tone implies that this is final, and Will doesn't bother to remind him that he can shower by himself. He honestly doesn't know if he can, right now. He might drown. The glue that holds his epithelial cells together might decompose, and he might wash down the drain. Some bacteria produce hyaluronidase to break down the bonds between animal cells. Will imagines all of his cells breaking their bonds, floating away from each other. He would no longer be a human being if none of his cells stayed in contact. It would be a good way to stop existing. 

When he comes out of this fantasy, he finds himself standing naked in a luxurious bathroom, entranced by the tile pattern on the floor. Sometimes he thinks patterns might be haunting him. Hannibal is standing outside the shower, testing the water temperature, and Will thinks he can see the way the heat and scent rise off the man's bare skin. Hannibal is beautiful. The color of his skin is so unlike Will's, and the planes of his body are powerful. The sweep of his shoulder blades, the dimples at the base of his spine. Will looks, and Hannibal catches him looking, and Hannibal laughs. 

He places his hands around Will's pale ribcage, pulls him into the shower, and moves him under the spray. Hannibal's hands seem to be roaming everywhere now, wetting Will's hair and his back, rubbing across his face, lifting his arms. 

The doctor palms over Will's soft cock, wetting his pubic hair, and Will yelps and stumbles backward. Hannibal catches him, pats his sides and back like he's a dog. 

"Hush now. Only cleaning, remember? This soap is only available in Copenhagen, but I have it imported because I have found it to be the best. You really ought to take better care of your skin. So delicate and pale, but harsh chemicals will only irritate you. You have grown accustomed to feeling uncomfortable, but you deserve to be cared for." 

Hannibal scrubs Will as he speaks, explaining the source of his natural sea sponge and the products he plans to use on Will's hair. It is surprisingly comfortable, for being naked in the shower with a cannibal. The warm water is soothing, and he enjoys the feeling of fingers massaging his scalp. He is relaxed enough to speak, which of course is a mistake. 

"What I don't get, is that your name is Hannibal the Cannibal. Like, did you do that on purpose? It sounds like a comic strip drawn by a middle-schooler. A little hard to take seriously." 

The hands tighten briefly in his scalp, then slip to the delicate flesh at Will's sides. Hannibal takes a small amount of skin between two fingers, restraining Will with his other hand, and _pinches_. 

Will howls. Most people wouldn't be able to generate enough force to drive blunt nails through skin, but Hannibal is not most people. Both his thumb and his middle finger puncture deeply, and hot blood runs down Will's hip. The pain sets off a siren in his fragile mind and he imagines a monster digging sharp claws into his skin, reaching inside of him to touch the two fingernails together. 

In reality, Hannibal calmly rinses off his bloody hand, and then calmly turns Will and cleans the wound. 

"I did not expect to begin training you so soon, but it is all to the good. The rules of my house are simple, but they must be obeyed. My name is Hannibal Lecter, and you may call me Hannibal. Mocking me will result in punishment. Various people find various punishments pleasurable, but I have met no one who enjoys being pinched. Behave yourself, and I will not have to do it again." 

Will's heart is thumping, and for a moment he fears that he's going to have another panic attack. Three in one day might actually kill him, or break his mind forever. Then Hannibal brings Will into his chest, shushing him and rocking him, gently rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. 

Will rubs his face into Hannibal's chest hair, and closes his eyes. Underneath the linen and cologne, the doctor smells like other men. A little bit salty, a little bit musky. A certain undefinable smell that Will's mind labels _warmth_. It seems odd that such a singular man should be the same as others, beneath his clothes. 

Hannibal does not speak again as he finishes cleaning his new pet, nor does he speak as he pats Will dry with a fluffy towel and guides him into the bedroom, where clothes have been laid out. Everything following the punishment seems particularly dreamlike, and Will is afraid he might fall out of his body and pass through the first floor into the earth. 

"Get dressed now, and come downstairs when you are ready. I am going to begin cooking." 

Hannibal is being gentle with him. Hannibal is always so gentle with him, except when he is cruel. 

Will clears his throat.

"Are you going to…cook…uh…" he trails off, unable to say the words. 

"Tonight, I am preparing Alaskan salmon. We will leave more locally sourced delicacies for another day. I fear the stress might be too much for you tonight." 

Will nods gratefully, turning to the clothes on the bed. He's kind of surprised that Hannibal trusts him to dress himself. He doesn't know what he expected, but the garments are somewhere between the psychiatrist's bespoke suits and the plaid shirts Will buys at Wal-Mart. 

Silk boxers. Dark, expensive jeans that fit too closely for Will's comfort. A belt that looks as though it might be handmade by some impossibly posh artist. White shirt. Plain blue tie. A navy cardigan so soft that Will can't stop himself from touching it continuously. Everything fits with a creepy precision. How did Hannibal know his size? He must have had some things tailored. 

Will spends several minutes contemplating crawling under Hannibal's enormous bed and sleeping there in the dark, but he eventually forces himself from the room. Better to go to the kitchen now than to make Hannibal come looking for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my new beta, Lady_Darkside! We spent a long time talking about the future of this story on Skype, and now I'm afraid that my plans have expanded beyond my talent level. But I will do my best, and probably keep posting every couple of days. I put the chapter count as 10 chapters because that seems reasonable and having a question mark there makes me feel anxious. It might change as the story develops.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys eat dinner.

Hannibal's kitchen was a strange cross between that of a fine restaurant and that of a cooking show host. It was obviously designed as a stage at which the artist could perform, yet there was also an air of the practical. A competent butcher, turning sentient beings into edible meat. 

The artist-in-residence seemed willing to use his guest as a source of unskilled labor. He handed Will a large metal bowl and a colander full of rinsed edamame, and instructed him to shell the beans. 

Will worked steadily at the task, feeling a hiccup of satisfaction each time a bean slipped free of its cover and pinged against the metal bowl. He resisted the urge to watch Hannibal preparing the fish, and instead turned his thoughts to ownership. 

As a boy growing up in Louisiana, he had trapped and kept a number of pets. It wasn't cruel or psychopathic; in fact, Will hadn't known anyone who _didn't_ collect small animals in elementary school. Like climbing trees or playing Ghost in the Graveyard, it was just one of those things boys did to entertain themselves. 

Most kids stuck to the cold-blooded, although Dennis McCallum had tamed a squirrel once. Frogs and crawdads were expected, of course, as well as snakes and lizards, though they were slightly harder to find. Will had kept a large box turtle for nearly two years. Her name was Gladys. Generally, though, the animals lasted for a few weeks or months, and they were rarely given names. Usually they died naturally, from the inexpert attentions of ten-year-olds who had no idea how to care for lizards and parents who honestly didn't give a shit. Sometimes they died unnaturally, as when Tommy Nicholson's older brother and his friends had used Tommy's frogs as baseballs. 

Still, the interactions followed a set pattern. First, a boy would see an animal. If it were a mammal, he might spend days taming it; otherwise, he would simply stalk it. He would catch the animal, spend a wild afternoon attempting to build it an appropriate habitat and tempting it with various bits of food. For a few days, he would watch the creature avidly and show it off to the other boys, boasting of how he had caught it himself. Then he would get bored, and either let the animal die or use it to further his knowledge of anatomy. Every once in a while a kind mother would force her son to release it back into the wild. Generally, though, the possession ended with the animal's death. 

"Are you going to kill me?" Will asks Hannibal now.

Hannibal looks thoughtful, and he pauses in the process of scoring the salmon.

"Hmm, yes, I think so. Not anytime soon, but eventually. It is the only suitable ending to our arrangement, don't you think?" 

Will fumbled with an edamame pod, and three beans went flying across the floor. Will scrambled after them, belatedly realizing that Hannibal wouldn't want him crawling across the floor in his new clothes. 

But the psychiatrist met him on the floor, holding one of Will's hands in his own, and suddenly the younger man felt very, very small.

"You're bleeding," Hannibal rumbled. 

He was, barely. He'd scraped his finger on the rough fuzz of an edamame pod. 

Hannibal lifted the finger to his strange lips, suckled gently at the side of the injured digit. He was staring directly into Will's eyes, and Will could feel his own pulse thumping against Hannibal's fingers and lips. 

Hannibal let the finger drop from his mouth. It was oddly erotic, and Will felt as though he'd seen the man's mask drop for just a moment before he spoke. 

"You have stumbled across another rule, dear Will. No marks on your skin unless I place them there myself. This was an accident, and you will not be punished, but I expect you to take more care in the future." 

***

Dinner was a strange affair. Of course the food was wonderful, but Will no longer felt comfortable eating things he could not easily identify. The salad contained some sort of pickled plums, and their dark juice reminded him of blood. Everything was arranged to be a work of art, and Will felt ugly and untamed among such beauty.

It didn't help that Hannibal spent the entire meal watching him with a lustful intensity. He barely glanced at his own food, but his eyes followed Will's fork from plate to lips again and again. 

Will was considering the pros and cons of starting a conversation when Hannibal spoke, a slight, excited tremor in his voice. 

"How do you like it?" 

The question seemed loaded, and Will froze.

"It's, um, good. I mean, very good. Delicious. You're a…an amazing chef." 

He flinched, fearing Hannibal's reaction. He didn't know how to compliment this man, didn't know what words to use.

But Hannibal seemed satisfied, if a little disappointed. He sipped his wine, and gestured to Will's full glass.

"Drink. I have been saving this vintage for a special occasion."

Will drank. 

"Does anyone else know about you? Anybody we know, because I'm sure you have…deputies." 

He purposely chose that word, though "accomplices" would be more appropriate, and "pawns" more accurate still. 

Hannibal was amused, and he didn't seem angry. 

"I do have 'deputies,' but you will never meet them. As for our mutual acquaintances -- Abigail knows that I am not all that I appear, and perhaps she suspects my true nature, but she has nothing concrete." 

Will curled his hands around himself, clutching his own arms. He had forgotten completely about Abigail. 

"She isn't…she isn''t like you, is she?" he asked hesitantly.

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. 

"I have made a promise to Abigail that I will not reveal her secrets. I do not break my promises lightly." 

Will sighed. That was not a comforting statement. 

"Please don't…make her yours, not like me. I want her to have freedom. She's smart, you know, she could do anything. Get away from here, have a good life." 

Hannibal looked compassionate. It was strange how well he wore the expressions of the neurotypical. 

"I will not make that promise to you, dear Will, but I do promise to always keep Abigail's best interests in my heart. I, also, feel a responsibility toward her. Drink your wine, please." 

Will sipped again, still feeling protective over the girl. How could he protect her from Hannibal when he couldn't protect himself? 

"Can I see her, while I'm here? Could we have her over for dinner?" 

Hannibal hummed, considering. He always paused before speaking, but he never stammered or took back his words. Will wondered if the pause was an affectation, like the accent. He was sure that someone as intelligent as Hannibal could imitate American speech patterns more closely, if he so chose. He retained his accent for his own reasons. 

"I will think about it. And now it appears you are ready for bed. It has been a long time since you had any restful sleep." 

Will was, in fact, incredibly sleepy. His head lolled forward and he seemed to be losing consciousness briefly every time he blinked. He felt the psychiatrist pull out his chair, lift him from his seat, and he slumped against the man's warm shoulder.

"Didja drug m'wine?" he slurred, struggling to stand upright. 

He heard felt Hannibal's chuckle under his cheek, but did not receive any further response to his question. 

When he next awoke, it was to sunlight dappling across a warm bed and a stranger's pajamas rasping softly against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed, because I am impatient and I want to write the next scene tonight. Thank you for all the comments, and if I don't reply, it is because I don't know what to say, and not because I don't love you all dearly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will curses a lot. Hannibal is Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of past dub-con? And dub-con cuddling? Not sure, please advise me about warnings in the comments.

Hannibal walks in then, carrying a tray. He's impeccably dressed for -- Will squints at the clock -- 7:40 in the morning. 

"Ah, good, you're awake. I suspect you'll need to sleep for most of today, to regain your strength and make up for what you missed. I have to go into the office this morning, but I'll leave breakfast here for you."

Will pulls himself up on elbows, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable in the luxurious bed. There's something particularly stomach-churning about enjoying opulence when you know you'll have to pay for it later.

"Did you drug my wine last night?" 

Hannibal is standing in front of a full-length mirror, his back to Will as he ties a pale green paisley into his characteristic double Windsor. 

"Hmm, yes. But it was no more than they would have given you had I allowed Jack to send you to the hospital. I merely chose a more pleasant method of delivery."

He finishes straightening his tie and moves to the dresser to fasten his cufflinks. 

"Go back to sleep, dear Will. My last appointment ends at one. If you wake before I return, you may explore the house. Your clothes are on the chair." 

For as good an actor as he is, Will is a little disappointed that Hannibal cannot manage to hide how ridiculously pleased with himself he is. He sweeps across the room like a dancer, pushes Will's shoulder firmly into the mattress, and kisses his forehead, murmuring, "Sleep." 

Will waits for the sound of his steps clicking down the wooden stairs before muttering, "What the fuck, Hannibal. I'm not your pregnant housewife." 

Wouldn't want to be punished for sass again. 

And despite Will's knowledge that he is in a place that is fundamentally unsafe, Hannibal's side of the bed is looking damn near irresistible. He blames it on the drugs still in his system, the aftereffects of his breakdown, and some part of his chimp brain telling him he's in a safe den.

But because Will's brain has hated him for years, he is unable to suppress the tiny voice whispering _Hannibal smells so good. I can still feel his lips on my forehead. I should curl up in his bed and hide here forever._

Thankfully, he passes out without having to follow that train of thought to its full, unflattering conclusion. 

***

The morning and early afternoon pass uneventfully. Will sleeps until 11:30, picks at his breakfast (he finds he no longer has an appetite for "protein scramble"), and cleans himself up. 

He thinks over the events of the previous day and despises himself for his passivity. He's not yet strong enough to attempt to escape Hannibal; it's probable that he would not be able to escape even at full strength. Still, the inevitability of failure is no reason to allow Hannibal to dress and pose him like a doll in a dollhouse. 

Despite his self-loathing, Will finds himself following Hannibal's instructions when he returns, helping to prepare a kidney stew. He thinks about the kidney's provenance and has to leave the kitchen twice to vomit. Hannibal ignores his distress, sharing mundane details about his work and the origins of the recipe, enjoying his game of domestic doctor. 

Will stirs his stew, sipping broth and avoiding chunks of meat. His stomach cramps and clenches with each swallow, but his nose is reading from a different script. The meal smells like home and comfort and sustenance, and a dark part of Will imagines himself kneeling over a body, scooping warm meat into his mouth and smearing his face with blood. He shivers from disgust and a shameful note of arousal. 

He washes the dishes, helps clear the table, muttering bland things about low appetite and medication reactions when Hannibal questions him about his nearly full bowl. 

Finally the larger man sighs. 

"Will, I have been trying to give you space, but your tension is spoiling the atmosphere. Come into the living room and I will rub your back." 

Will backs away, wraps his arms around himself.

"No. Not going to happen. I don't like being touched, Dr. Lecter, and I don't need a massage." 

Hannibal huffs out a breath and his eyes twinkle menacingly. 

"My dear Will, you seem to have mistaken that for a request. Join me on the couch."

He digs his fingers into Will's shoulder and pushes him forcefully toward the other room. Will is reminded of swimming in the ocean as a child, trying to move against the tide and being thrown back by an impartial force that is stronger than he will ever be. 

The psychiatrist sits on the couch, pulling Will down next to him, then twisting Will's body so his torso lays across Lecter's knees. 

He tries to remain as tense as possible, biting his lips and clenching his jaw when Hannibal digs his strong fingers into the muscles beneath Will's shoulder blades. 

"Now," the doctor says softly, "Tell me about your sexual history." 

Will sits straight up, pushing back as Hannibal tries to force him to lie down again.

"What the fuck?! I'm not here to play Freud and Anna O with you, Lecter! Besides, there's nothing to tell!" 

A strong hand pushes against his back. Will feels how weak he's become, from weeks of barely eating and months of barely sleeping. The doctor doesn't sound as though he's straining at all, pinning an adult man against his lap with one hand. 

Will didn't think it was possible for him to grow _more_ tense, but he does when he feels Hannibal fit two fingernails against the back of his neck. 

This time, he's prepared for the pinch, and he manages not to make a sound except for a low hiss. 

He is not so lucky when Hannibal laps at the blood with broad, wet strokes of his tongue. Will whimpers, and the cannibal murmurs, "Sh sh sh sh sh," patting Will's back as though he's a colicky infant. 

"Lying," the doctor sighs against his skin, "and withholding information from me. Both are against the house rules. But your blood, my dear Will, is exquisite. The best thing that I have ever tasted, and I have tasted quite a lot." 

Through ground teeth, Will replies, "Is it against the rules for you to lie to me? Or _withhold information_? Because you seem to be enforcing a double standard." 

"Don't be ridiculous, Will. I am the master of this house, and I will lie when it pleases me to do so. You are also free to lie to anyone else inside our house or outside of it. The rule only applies to you, when you speak to me alone." 

"Well, at least it's fair," he quips, trying not to relax against the hands kneading his midback. 

"No more sarcasm, please. Are you a virgin?"

"No."

"I thought not. When did you first have sex?"

"No."

"Don't play games with me, my good Will. I play better than you, and I will destroy you if you lose. Describe the circumstances under which you lost your virginity." 

Will closes his eyes, breathes in the warm, slightly scratchy linen of Hannibal's suit against his chin.

"Not going to happen. I am not discussing this with you, or anyone, ever."

He tries to push himself up against Hannibal's hand, is forced back down and smacked for his troubles, and the monster grips the entirety of his neck like he's collaring a dog, before sliding his hand around to cut off Will's airflow.

Will feels the skin of his face grow hot and swollen, feels the strange tickle that comes from having one's esophagus compressed, and does his best to ignore the sensation that he is dying. _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic._

He waits until his vision goes black and his head begins to swim before reaching up to tap at the monster's hand. Hannibal releases his neck, still holding him down, and says not a word as Will gasps and chokes.

When Will doesn't immediately speak, he fits his hand around his neck again, applying the lightest of pressure. Will's words come out in a rush. 

"I was an undergrad at Tulane. Third year. This guy I TA'd with dragged me to a party. I wasn't in the habit of seeking out sex, but this girl did all the work with barely any effort on my part. I was curious enough not to reject her. She dragged me to her dorm room, we had sex, then I left. I never saw her again." 

Hannibal hums. 

"And was the sex enjoyable?"

Will hesitates, and Hannibal scrapes a nail over the pinch mark on his neck.

"It was for her. She 'enjoyed herself' several times."

"And for you?"

"Eventually I got soft. She asked if I had come, and I said yes. I think she knew I was lying, but she didn't really need me anymore, so I left. It was not an experience I was eager to repeat." 

"And what was her name?"

"Her name was Kathleen. I don't know her last name." 

He twists slightly, looking over his shoulder.

"You aren't going to murder everyone I've ever slept with, are you?" 

Hannibal looks delighted that Will has thought of this all by himself.

"It would be quite a lot of work to track them all down, but I think it might be worth the time. It would certainly be a lot of fun. However, I intend to contain my ire to fantasies for the time being. Please continue. Describe your next sexual experience. I assume it was better than the first?" 

Will leans forward, speaking into the couch, rocking his forehead back and forth across the velvet upholstery. 

"Grad school. He wasn't in any of my classes, but he just kept turning up. Using the lab when I was, sitting at a study booth next to mine in the library, standing behind me at the coffee shop. He was handsome, and he wanted me. I let him take me back to his apartment when his roommates were out." 

He stops, unwilling to finish the story. It's much more intimate to admit that he actually _likes_ sex, and the Catholic guilt brings a warm flush to his cheeks.

Hannibal presses a finger against the bruise on his neck.

"Go on." 

"We…enjoyed ourselves. I acted a bit too much like an overeager virgin, though, and I stopped seeing him around after that. When I did run into him, he looked at me," Will's chest tightened in anger, remembering, "he looked like he felt sorry for me. His friends laughed at me. I saw them watching. They knew what had happened." 

Hannibal's voice is soft and intimate against his ear.

"And his name?" 

With a hint of vindictive bloodlust, Will speaks clearly.

"His name was Dominic. Dominic Spohr. S-P-O-H-R." 

Hannibal laughs, bringing a hand up to scratch through Will's curls. 

"My sweet, dark Will. It almost seems as though you wouldn't mind me paying a visit to this one." 

"I don't approve of you killing anyone. He was just a guy I had sex with once."

Hannibal presses a finger against the bruise on his neck, chiding, "I said no lying. Were there others after this Dominic?" 

Will feels exhausted. He drags a hand up to rub at his eyes. 

"Yeah. After that, I had sex once or twice a year. It was easy. Go to a bar, let a stranger pick me up, go home with him, get off, get out. I don't know their names, so don't ask me. None of it was personal. Just scratching an itch." 

Hannibal's hands roam downward, smoothing deeply between each rib.

"There was one, was there not? One man who was not such a stranger?" 

Will freezes.

"How did you know that?"

"I am adept at reading people, Will. As are you. You should not be so surprised." 

"Yeah, there was one. It…the sex was good. And he was nice. We exchanged numbers, saw each other a few times. It was still just sex, though. We weren't _dating_."

"No, of course not." 

Hannibal rubs a strong hand in flat circles against his back, asks, "What about the sex made it good?"

Will squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his hands. He does not want to talk about this, any of it. He tries to imagine that he is alone, that no one is listening. 

"He…was sweet to me. He kissed me, and…he had rough hands. Left bruises. But afterward, he never left until I was ready to let him go. He cuddled. And yes, I realize I sound like a 16-year-old girl. I liked him because he _cuddled with me_."

Hannibal's voice is whisper-soft, as gentle as his circling hands.

"And why did things end?" 

"I had a panic attack. In bed. He couldn't deal, so he left." 

_"Hey, Willy, Willy baby, what's wrong with you? You need me to call a doctor?"_

_"NO! GOD, I just…I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I CAN"T BREATHE!"_

_"You got asthma or something, baby? I might have an inhaler somewhere, ex-boyfriend, y'know. Hey, why you crying? Somebody die? Tell me who died, Willy, come on."_

_"Ben, EVERYONE IS DEAD! All the murderers, and the ghosts that follow them, spitting at me. They know I killed them. They get inside my head, use my hands, and then I'm covered, covered in blood. SO MUCH BLOOD, Ben, and it won't wash off!"_

_"Whoa, man, is this like a cop thing? PTSD? Will, baby, come on, don't do that. You gotta, you gotta stop scratching yourself, you're bleeding. Tell me who to call, okay, because I don't know what to do. You're freaking me out, Will."_

_"Everything is bleeding. Everyone is dead and it's just me and I wish there were more people so I could kill them too. I'm a monster, Benny."_

_"Hey, man, I like you, but if you're going homicidal on me, I don't think I can stick around. This is too much for me, y'know? I don't exactly have the skill-set to handle a nutso cop screaming about blood. But you tell me who to call, and I'll call them, okay? You need to get yourself a doctor or something. Somebody who knows what to do."  
_

Thankfully, Hannibal doesn't ask for more details on the break-up.

"How many times did you see him?"

Will is shaking now, shivering on Hannibal's lap. He feels sick to his stomach, and also like maybe his organs are drying up into dust inside of him. 

"Five times. The fifth time was when he left." 

"And what did he look like?"

Will closes his eyes again, remembering. 

"Tall. 6'1", 6'2." Sandy colored hair, green eyes, crooked nose. He was good-looking." 

"I assume you know his name? And where he worked?"

"Don't kill him, Hannibal, please. Benny was a good guy. He just didn't know what to do with me." 

Hannibal is rocking him now, and Will tries to remind himself that this is a serial killer. 

"Shh, Will. No withholding, remember?" 

Will hates himself with the fire of a thousand suns. He is a terrible, terrible person.

"His name is Benjamin Figari. I don't know what he did or where he worked." 

Hannibal presses against his bruise, warningly, "Will." 

"I don't know! I think he was a welder. He had burns on his forearms, and he was strong. I don't know where he worked, and if I did, I wouldn't tell you." 

Hannibal lifts another fold of skin, exactly parallel and one inch away from the mark that still stings.

Will exhales, loathing himself so much he thinks he might die of it, and whispers, "One time he wore a t-shirt. From Weston Welding Company. Now leave me alone." 

"That is not an option, Will." 

Hannibal is essentially hugging Will now, cradling him with Will's chin tucked over his shoulder. 

He strokes Will's back, says, "I need to know what happened next."

"Nothing. Nothing for a long time. A lot of shit happened, but no guys. I got injured, freaked the fuck out, went into the psych ward, left New Orleans, came here, got a job at the academy. I wasn't really thinking about getting laid, okay?" 

"Shhh, shhh. You know I need to know the rest. It will be so much easier if I don't have to drag it out of you." 

Will is angry now.

He pushes himself off of Hannibal's lap, bats away his clutching hands, spins out across the room. It feels like that moment just before a car crash, when you know everything's about to go wrong.

He speaks fast, building up to a scream.

"Two months before I met you, I picked up a guy in a bar. He took me back to his place, shoved me up against the door, and fucked me hard. Then he pulled up my pants, pushed me out the door, and left me to walk home with semen dripping down my legs because he didn't fucking offer me a washcloth! I never made it more than six inches inside his apartment, okay! Is that what you wanted to know? Is that what you fucking dragged me in here for? Poor baby Will, got what he was looking for! Fucked and fled, every time! I'm not a goddamn victim, Hannibal! You're a serial killer, okay, so I don't know why you're so curious about the sexual habits of antisocial gay profilers! It must sound pretty _fucking_ tame, compared to what you're used to." 

Hannibal's eyes are dark, almost black, and he stalks toward Will like a panther. Like a predator. It's obvious who has the power. Will has been driven to shouting, but Hannibal's voice is so calm, barely above a whisper.

"Language, Will. I need to know what has happened to you so I know what to do with you now." 

Will raises his hands above his neck, holding them in a loose, ineffective cross. 

"What you can do with me, is let me _fucking_ leave! What you can do with me is leave me alone! I don't need a serial killer boyfriend! I need to go home and see my dogs! I need to fucking kill myself so I don't have to live with myself anymore! I don't need kidney stew, okay, and I don't need you to dress me like a Barbie doll, and I don't need you drugging my wine and pinching my neck and treating me like a goddamn dog!" 

Will had been heading toward the front door, but he's barely capable of walking right now. Hannibal crowds him, backs him into a corner, and Will slides down the wall to cower against the plush carpet. Like a dog. Like an abused orphan, running from his psychopathic foster father. He has no power here.

Hannibal's eyes are like glowing coals, and he's fucking _shushing_ again. 

"Shh, shh, shh. No more wine, dear Will. I had no idea that had upset you so much. We'll do things differently, yes? I'll take care of you. Don't worry, darling. You're mine." 

Will feels the needle sliding into his vein, and then he feels nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbetaed because my new friend hasn't been online in a couple of days. Hopefully she is okay and just sleeping or something. I think we might live in different timezones. Also, I changed the rating to M. I never know how to rate stuff.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gory dreams and non-con/somnophiliac cuddling and nudity. And biting. 
> 
> Timing note: Will arrived at Hannibal's on Friday afternoon. This chapter begins Saturday night, and carries through to Sunday night. Hannibal does not see patients on Sundays, so he is home all day.

That night and the following day blended together in a horror-mess of nightmares that never ended when Will woke up. 

His first dream was of the stag, the beautiful raven-feathered stag. In the dream, Will returned to Wolf Trap, let himself in through the front door, and found the stag standing proud and haughty in his den. All over the floor lay dead dogs, and the stag stood over their bodies, but he had not killed them. Their wounds were from hunting knives, not antlers. And Will stood in the doorway, and the house seemed to get smaller until his hair brushed against the ceiling, and he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

The laughter woke him, and he found himself completely naked, tangled and sweaty in Hannibal's sheets. The man himself was perfectly still next to him, completely dressed except for his jacket and shoes. He laid on his back, hands folded across his belly, watching Will steadily without turning his head. An obscenely bright crescent moon shone through the window, illuminating Hannibal's aristocratic features. 

_Who was this man?_

Will's heart rate sped up, and the rapidly pump of blood carried more sedative to his brain. He fell asleep as he was cresting the wave of a panic attack, something he hadn't previously thought possible. What the hell had Hannibal given him? 

He was thrown viciously into the center of a dream bloodier than the sickest Korean torture porn. He was a member of some stereotypical cannibalistic tribe, and a tiny part of Will's college-educated brain murmured, _This is cultural hegemony, white man._

His fellow tribe members included every killer he'd ever embodied, grinning and laughing, rattling necklaces made of human bone and shoving warm meat into their mouths. They were all drenched in blood, staring at Will with wide, expectant eyes. What was he supposed to do? He had to…something. He looked down, and the faceless woman before him transformed into Abigail, looking up at him with her wide blue eyes and perfect swan neck. 

Will smiled gratefully. He knew exactly what to do! He slashed her throat, and painted his face with her blood, and _laughed_. He felt powerful. 

He swam through a heavy gray fog of half-eaten memories and frail associations that seemed to continue infinitely, before finally waking a second time. 

It was early morning now, just after dawn on a cloudy, chilly day. Will was still naked, but he was being held upright between Hannibal's thighs. The cannibal mouthed lightly at Will's shoulders, and pushed a bite of blueberry scone through his lips. Hannibal's skin was dripping with wild blueberry juice and melted butter. Will leaned forward instinctively and sucked at the sticky fingers, falling asleep again with fingers in his mouth. 

His next dream was surreal enough to make him wonder if he had been re-drugged. Will felt his body stretching outward, each layer of flesh thinning as it expanded, carrying his consciousness with it. He spread himself half-heartedly over the entire planet, sprawling across continents and oceans the way a teenager sprawls across furniture. He took no pleasure in his new kingdom; he only covered it because there was nowhere else to go. With the ungratefulness of a god, he pitied himself for having to live on such an ugly little planet. 

This dream also seemed to last many ages, as Will felt civilizations rise and fall beneath his hip bones. He watched his territory with complete indifference and ever-increasing boredom, until finally he awoke again. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Will found himself starfished out across the exact center of the enormous bed, with a proprietary limb placed on every piece of bedding. He was a god, after all, even if his kingdom happened to be a king-sized bed. 

More surprising was Hannibal's position between his spread legs. He did not seem to be violating Will, unless you considered it a violation for a psychiatrist to drag his hands slowly over the naked body of an unconscious patient. The still-open window suggested that it was mid-morning. 

Hannibal was literally whistling as he worked, dragging light fingertips gently down Will's back before reversing direction and skimming upwards with the backs of his hands. What was that song he was whistling? _Something classical,_ his brain supplied helpfully. Will knew nothing about classical music, but he imagined it was a song of stalking, claiming, and owning. 

Will fell back to sleep to the feeling of Hannibal's weight pressing against his upper thighs as the larger man leaned down and bit hard against a vertebra. 

He dreamed that he was killing, calm and happy and powerful. He tied up a ridiculous old drunk with rough rope in an abandoned warehouse, looked down at the man as he sharpened his knife. The knots weren't particularly tight, but the _delirium tremens_ had already set in, and the man couldn't stop shaking long enough to pick at his bonds. 

_This is my design._

"Tell me something true," he tells the old man, "because for every lie you tell me, I'm going to carve a mark into your skin." 

The man is slobbering, crying. He is disgusting.

"Please, please, don't do this. You don't have to do this. I got a son, you know? In Connecticut! He's got a kid! That kid needs me, man! I'm his granddad!" 

The man blubbers, coating his collar with shiny snot and yellow saliva. Will sighs.

"I count three lies, at least. One: I do have to do this. Two: Your son renounced you years ago. You have no claim to him now. Three: Your grandson does not need a drunken old man in his life. Three cuts for three lies. Let's hope you bleed out some truth." 

He doesn't bother removing the man's shirt and jacket. He doesn't deserve clean cuts. He deserves this -- _One. Two. Three._

The blood is thick and dirty-dark. It's tainted, mixed with dirt and cotton fibers, gray chest hairs and old man sweat. The marks are jagged -- one diagonal down the right clavicle, one vertical in the groove between left arm and torso, one horizontal directly across his sternum. 

He does not deserve artistry, he does not deserve to be elevated. 

_This is my design._

Will wakes. It is afternoon, and he is alone in the room. The loneliness punches a hole straight through his chest, and he feels panic rising. _No, no no no no no no._

He's drowning, dying, screaming bloody and broken. He tears into himself, managing to scratch some blood out of his naked thigh. He knows that he is dying, and he longs to speed up the process, to escape his own mind sooner rather than later. Twisting the sheet around his hands, trying to coax his muscles to follow the jerking impulses of an unstable mind, he wraps the fabric around his own neck, pulls tight enough to scare himself. 

And then Hannibal is there, with his blue tie and his white apron. Will has a moment to appreciate the curve of Hannibal's hip, the scent of his cologne, the feeling of leaning into a warm chest. Then an icicle slides into his forearm, and he is gone again. 

Will dreams that he is going about his normal life, lecturing at the academy, going home to feed his dogs. It is lonely and safe. The only difference is that everyone knows he is a monster, and they taunt and ridicule him. He goes out to his car to find that dead tail-less squirrels laid out on both the hood and the trunk. He catches a woman staring at him on the street, and when he glances at her, she spits in his face. His students, the same ones who once craved his attention, now mock him behind his back. He forgets his coat in the lecture hall once, and goes back to find it drenched in fake blood. 

Although it hurts, Will does not blame them. He is a monster. He deserves to be tormented. The final straw, though, is coming home to find that one of his dogs has been shot and left on his doorstep. They must have chosen Maggie because she is the oldest and the slowest, with arthritis in her back legs and rheumy, weepy eyes. In the dream, Will falls to his knees and cries. He does not deserve these sweet, loving creatures. They should not have to suffer for his sins. 

When Will wakes up again, it is nighttime, or perhaps late evening. He feels clean, whole and safe. His hair is damp and smells like lemongrass. The sheets have been changed, and he is wearing new cotton boxers and a loose undershirt. 

He sighs, and pulls himself into a cross-legged position on bed. Across from him, Dr. Lecter sleeps on his stomach in luscious silk pajamas, his hair mussed across his forehead and one hand curled up near his chin. It is an oddly human look for a man so removed from humanity, and Will feels a hot bubble of fondness rise and swell in his chest. 

He begins to cry very quietly, tears dropping onto his knees. It's too much. He is used to pain, guilt, discomfort, horror. Used to nightmares and killers and overstimulation. He can handle odd looks and awkward social interactions. But a serial killer who tends to Will's every need, who understands him and holds him and _needs_ him…this is far too much for Will's fragile psyche. 

He allows himself to fall face forward onto the bed, rubbing his wet cheeks against the sheets and wriggling his legs out so his is on his stomach. Then he shifts side to side until he is inches from Hannibal's face, heart thudding as he inhales the other man's breath. He smells like mint and chai tea and sour-sleep. 

Will extends his neck, one centimeter at a time, until his nose is touching Hannibal's nose. He's not wearing his glasses, and he wants to be able to see the arrangement of eyelashes against Hannibal's cheeks. 

They are pale and short, not thick and dark like Will's own. Arranged in a staggered pattern, with one lash a step higher than the two on either side. Each strand is a slightly different length, and there is a gap, a break in the pattern, two thirds of the way down the right eyelid. That settles it; Hannibal _is_ human. A monster imitating humanity could not have planned such perfectly flawed eyelashes. 

Will sighs again, this time in relief, and Hannibal inhales the sigh, then lifts his arm and throws it across Will's shoulders. With a huff and a small groan, he raises his torso and drops down against Will's back, pinning him to the bed with half of his weight. 

He rests his head against Will's shoulder, bites roughly at the pinna of his ear, and mumbles, "Sleep, Will." 

Will disobeys. The drugs have finally faded enough that he can fight sleep, and he does not wish to dream again. Not when he could stay awake and feel Hannibal breathing on top of him. This is all he ever wanted -- a safe place to escape from his nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I rely pretty heavily on dialogue, so it was hard to write a chapter without any. Let me know how I did?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for panic attacks and implied cannibalism.

Will wakes up a few minutes before Hannibal does, wrapped securely in the other man's arms. He has never woken up with a lover before. The intimacy of his situation overwhelms him, and his chest aches with it. He is aroused.

His lungs itch with every inhale, the rising discomfort that means he will have a panic attack at some point today. It feels like waiting for a sneeze, or bobbing along the ocean floor, feeling the water grow colder as you approach a drop-off. 

He feels Dr. Lecter wake against his back, feels his strong body tense as he stretches, then rolls over, supporting himself on top of Will. 

"Good morning."

His accent is heavier when he wakes up, and his half-closed eyes would make his arousal evident even if Will couldn't feel him pressing hard against his hip. The doctor lowers himself down, and then they are kissing, and Will is drowning. 

The kiss is hot and sweet, heavy with unfulfilled potential. 

Will kisses greedily, dragging Hannibal down, fisting his hands in the other man's hair. He is fully hard now, and completely out of control, and he spreads his thighs, wrapping his legs around Hannibal's back to force him closer. 

He would have thought Hannibal would be a cruel lover, biting and bruising, but he is not. He answers every kiss and thrust with his own, he pushes deeper into Will's mouth and holds his shoulder with a strong hand, but every action is meant to bring pleasure. Will wishes he would bruise him, tear at his hair, cause him pain. That's what he deserves, for bedding with a monster. He doesn't deserve sweetness or satisfaction. 

Hannibal tilts his head, licks across Will's jaw to place a kiss on his ear, then tugs the lobe gently into his mouth. Will's ears have always been an erogenous zone, and he jerks his hips up involuntarily, cries out with a rough voice. 

Then his brain comes online, and the panic burns through his chest like a wildfire. Suddenly he can't stand to be touched. He pushes Hannibal up, off, away, slaps at his hands and rolls off the bed. 

He lands on the ground with a thump, and rolls under the bed to hide. 

"Will, what is wrong? Come out, let's talk." Hannibal's voice is slowly changing, adapting from 'morning sex' to 'impromptu psychiatry session.' 

Will stay where he is, directly under the center of the bed, with his knees pulled up and his arms covering his face. Hannibal could drag him out, but he'd never do something as undignified as crawling on his belly to pull a grown man out by his ankle. At least, Will hopes he wouldn't. He can't bear the thought of being touched or forced to speak. 

He peeks out with half an eye, sees Hannibal's bare feet. There is something ridiculous about a man like that walking around in bare feet. Will muses on the boniness of Hannibal's ankle, the veins running down to his toes. He has ugly feet. Will needs to concentrate on the parts of Hannibal that he finds unappealing, because apparently "serial killer" is no longer enough to put him off. 

Hannibal sighs. He sounds extremely annoyed. Will thinks he might be running a hand through his rumpled hair, and hates himself for finding the idea sexy. 

Hannibal's voice is clipped. He is not happy.

"Fine, Will. I am going to take a shower. You may use the bathroom when I am done, and then you can come down for breakfast. We will talk about this then." 

The feet move away, and Will catalogs sounds as he hyperventilates. It's a technique that an old therapist taught him. Focusing on facts and the real world is supposed to help ground him and pull him out of his panic. 

Will cups his hands around his mouth, breathing into them as though they are a paper bag. _Drawer sliding open. Clothes rustling. Closet sliding open. Clothes rustling. Dr. Lecter breathing. Setting something down. Clothes on the chair? The bathroom door opening, then closing. Water running at the sink. A clunk and a creak. Water running in the shower._

The technique is failing. Will's thought are spiraling deeper into panic, and he is unable to corral them into any sort of order. Time slips past him and the outside world becomes increasingly fuzzy and surreal. The only reality is inside his head, where he is steadily going insane, sliding deeper and deeper. If he falls deep enough, no one will ever be able to get him out. The walls are too slippery to climb. 

Will has to stop trying to breathe into his hands in order to cover his eyes and the back of his neck. It's important that he doesn't let anyone see his eyes or his exposed neck. If they see his eyes, they'll know he's a predator, and if they see his neck, they'll know he's prey. 

He is hiding in his favorite panic position, breathing into the carpet with one arm curled around his face and the other covering his neck. Will sobs and shakes and struggles to take in enough oxygen as he listens to the sounds of animals shrieking and dying all around him. 

His realities have swapped places, and now the sounds of dying animals are real, and the other sounds are hallucinatory. The shower shuts off, the bathroom door opens. He hears footsteps and fabric moving, but he knows this is only in his head. So he does not pay attention when the owner of the footsteps speaks.

"I am going to make breakfast, Will. Use the shower to clean yourself up, then come down and eat with me." 

Will tries to speak through the attack. Even if it is a hallucination, he ought to be warned.

"D-d-don't!" he wheezes in a breath, "Don't go." Another breath. "Monster'll…eat you." 

Will collapses face down and hardly hears the voice reply. It sounds amused. 

"Why, Will. I am touched by your concern, but at the moment, I am the only monster in this house." 

He hears Hannibal walking down the stairs, and then time doubles back and he swears he hears the shower running, but maybe he's only remembering that? And then he starts listening to the dying animal again. He wants to help it, but he can't move, and he stays stuck long enough that the poor thing finally gives up and dies. 

Finally, after an amount of time that could be anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours, Will manages to army crawl his way out from under the bed. 

He spends another 10 minutes giving himself an internal pep talk that goes something like, _C'mon, contract your thigh muscles and stand up. You can do it. Use the bed to pull yourself up. You have to force yourself to stand or you'll never get anywhere. Stand the fuck up, Graham._

Time jumps ahead and he finds himself hovering awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs with no memory of how he got there. 

Hannibal had been listening for his footsteps, though, or maybe he's psychic, or maybe he's been checking the stairs every few minutes. He grips Will by the elbow and leads him over to a kitchen chair, hands him a goblet of water with a lemon round floating in it.

Fucking Hannibal. Why does everything have to be a performance? Can't he ever just get someone a glass of water?

Will sips his water and stays quiet for what feels like far too long. Between the sweating and the hyperventilating, panic attacks always dehydrate him. 

He is driving himself cross-eyed by staring intently at the wood grain of the kitchen table when Hannibal speaks. 

"Is it possible that you deny your sexual desires because you fear giving in to them might cause you to give in to your desire for blood?" 

Will swallows, and ignores the fluttering in his chest. It's just the panic demons trying to reassert themselves. After an attack, they feel like they own him. 

"I don't deny my sexual desires. Or are you forgetting the conversation where you forced me to describe every sexual encounter I've ever had?" 

He can hear Hannibal moving around the kitchen, and he purposely avoids looking at him. Now is not the time to dwell on his surety of movement, the way he crosses a floor like a dancer. Like a predator, stalking his prey.

"You wait until you are so desperate for sex that you don't care who you are with, and then you hate yourself afterward. You refuse to attempt a relationship with anyone to whom you feel real attraction. You are repressed." 

Will laughs, and the sound cracks through the kitchen like a roll of thunder. He senses Hannibal stiffen, hears the sudden pause in the sound of whisking. How dare Will laugh when the good doctor is psychoanalyzing? 

"Yeah, I don't take psychiatric advice from _serial killers_. Not after I know what they are, at least." 

Hannibal lets the words linger in the air, and the kitchen temperature seems to drop several degrees. Will begins to sweat. 

"You have only recently discovered what I am, but I have known what you are for far longer. And still I want you. Do you deny that you are attracted to me?" 

Will presses his shaking hands against the table, summons up the last of his bravado. 

"Of course I'm attracted to you. You're a good-looking man. But I'm attracted to lots of people. It means nothing." 

Hannibal steps around the island and enters Will's space before his heart rate has recovered from the stress of speaking. He wipes his hands on his apron, then plucks at the skin between Will's clavicles and pinches. 

It's not as hard as the previous punishments. Blood wells up, but doesn't trickle down to where Will is still clothed in the sweaty pajamas that Hannibal must have placed on his unconscious body. 

Still, it hurts, and Will gasps, whimpers, "Why?" 

Hannibal retreats to his cooking arena, washes his hands like a surgeon. 

"You lied. You are not attracted to 'lots of people.' You suffer the ministrations of men with the proper parts to give you release, but it is rare that you find a true connection. A potential partner. Do not diminish what we have by suggesting it is the same as what you have shared with strangers in bars." 

Will says nothing. He cannot deny the truth of the words. His only real connections have been with serial killers.

***

Hannibal is busy again, plating food and delivering it to the table. Large golden pancakes dressed with homemade raspberry sauce. A mixture of sausage and onion that smells heavenly. Goblets of bloody, fresh-squeezed juice that appears to be a mixture of orange and pomegranate. 

Will attempts to eat the pancakes, his fork shaking as he delivers neat triangles to his mouth. He knows he needs to eat, knows he has had nothing in over 24 hours except what Hannibal finger-fed him while he slept, but his digestive system is officially offline. Digestion is one of the autonomic responses that is shut off to conserve energy during times of panic. Evolution clearly didn't plan for Will's situation.

The soft pancakes taste like ash and seem to expand so that he has to swallow several times to move each bite down his throat. Hannibal is watching him, consuming his own meal neatly without ever taking his eyes from Will.

Will sets his fork down and wraps his arms around himself. He cannot. 

Hannibal mirrors his movement, setting aside his own cutlery and coming to kneel next to Will's chair. He brings his own plate with him, pushes Will's to the side. He takes a portion of sausage in his fingers, taps Will's jaw with his other hand, and carefully places the morsel on his tongue.

The meat is incredible. Will's mouth waters, and fennel seeds crack under his teeth as he opens his mouth again and again, nearly nipping at Hannibal's fingers in his eagerness to devour. He _needs_ this, needs to be fed the results of Hannibal's kill. 

Hannibal steadies himself with a warm hand on Will's knee and feeds him sausage until the plate is empty. Then he leans back, dark maroon eyes steady on Will's face.

Will spends one moment resting, content that his hunter is pleased with him. Then he bolts from the room, knocks his chair over, and vomits violently into the toilet. The white porcelain is splattered with blood and bits of food, and Will clumsily attempts to wipe it clean with toilet paper. He can't do this anymore. He needs to get out of here before he loses himself completely to instinct.

He crawls out of the bathroom, unable to stand up, and leans against the wall of the kitchen with his arms around his knees. Hannibal is cleaning up, packing things away. He doesn't appear disturbed by Will's regurgitation. 

"Who was it?" Will rasps.

Hannibal speaks without looking at him.

"An overweight receptionist from a financial office in Baltimore. She was rude to the clients, smelled overpoweringly of cheap perfume, and talked loudly on her cellphone in a crowded elevator. But the sausage was perfect, yes?" 

Will's head is swimming. He feels suddenly too heavy.

"You killed her because she was rude?"

Hannibal hums softly, "Rude, yes, and bad at her job. Worthless while she lived. But she found purpose when she became our breakfast, don't you think?" 

Will digs his fingernails into his knees. 

"Do you know what happens to a population with no natural predators, Will? It grows weak. The unworthy proliferate, disease builds up, and those who are deserving of life are crushed by thousands of substandard specimens. Who would you rather have alive? Me, or the obese receptionist?" 

Hannibal is now standing close enough that Will can see him in his peripheral vision. He is expecting an answer. 

Will lies.

"The receptionist. At least she wasn't a murderer." 

Hannibal chuckles outright. He sounds gleeful.

"I'm not even going to punish you for that lie. Neither of us were convinced, and I find your stubbornness endearing." 

The doctor's footsteps quicken as he moves about his kingdom, competently handling whatever needs to be handled. 

"My first appointment is at eleven. I will be home tonight at seven-thirty. I expect you to have showered and dressed by that point. Other than that, you are free to use your time however you wish. I've left the library unlocked. There's a fascinating article in _Psychology Today_ about feral children that you might wish to look at. Chicken salad is in the refrigerator for your lunch. Do not do anything unwise."

He tips Will's chin up with a finger, forces him to look deep into those dark eyes.

"Is it actually chicken, in the salad?" Will whispers. 

Hannibal laughs again, fully.

"No, of course not. It's almost as though you don't know me at all. I'll see you tonight, Will. Be a good boy." 

And then he's gone, and Will is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is going to be a lot longer than 10 chapters, because I set out to write all of Monday, and the chapter ended itself at 10:30 in the morning. I have no idea what I'm doing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for panic attacks and implied cannibalism.   
> Beta'd by Syllogismos.   
> Chapter count is in flux.

Will spends a long time hunched against the wall in the kitchen, trying to make a plan. Sounds still echo in his head: doors closing, voices screaming, birds chirping, water hissing, Hannibal chuckling, animals screeching, woman pleading…

He drags himself back slowly and painfully. To pull out of the panic, he needs a safe place. He can't ground himself in an abattoir. He tries, briefly, lifting his head and naming the various tools and appliances he sees, but every name causes the panic to rise further.

He imagines the Ripper making use of each knife, catching a loop of intestines with the Bird's Beak, shaving off layers of thigh with a carving knife, separating muscular calves from tibia with a specially made boning knife.

His eyes dart around the room, imagining a whole human brain pureed in the blender, a fat red kidney pressed through the juicer…he flings himself to the ground and covers his face and neck.

The panic attack is intense but thankfully short. Mostly just extreme fear, whirling images of death and dismemberment, and a long string of begging and pleading.

Will closes his eyes, shakes himself off, and purposely reopens his eyes just halfway. He blocks out his peripheral vision, concentrates on seeing only in shades of black and white. Grinds his teeth to fill his ears with white noise. He needs to act without thinking.

He walks to the telephone mounted on the wall, prepares to dial Jack's office.

He almost collapses again when there is no dial tone. Of course the line has been cut.

He allows his thoughts out on a very short tether. If Hannibal had the forethought to cut off his landline, he surely took his tablet, cell phone, and laptop with him. He wouldn't block one method of communication without eliminating the others.

Behind a locked door? Possibly, but more likely not. Will's lock-picking skills are fairly pitiful, but the Ripper is a careful man. He would not leave anything too dangerous within Will's reach.

Will presses his hands and forehead flat against the wall, resting without sitting down. If he goes down again, he might not be able to make himself get up.

He is in Hannibal's house. He has driven here before. It is in a wealthy residential neighborhood.

If he retraces the route in his mind, he finds that there is a gas station on a corner about two and a half miles away. Will has literally walked further in his sleep.

It's really the only option. He needs to shower and dress. Luckily Hannibal finds bare feet unacceptable, even in the house, so he has provided Will with shoes. His attention to style will be his undoing. A wiser man would have kept his prisoner shoeless.

After a forty minute shower (He keeps blanking out. He knows he's losing time because the water grows colder and his skin prunes in his absence.), Will unlocks the front door and steps out onto the porch.

He feels like a mole, blinking and naked in the bright sunlight. His clean clothes are already soaked with sweat.

Despite this, he feels a faint thrum of pride. Hannibal underestimated him. He didn't think Will would be brave enough to step out the door, so he didn't bother with shackles or external locks. He was a fool.

Twenty minutes into his walk, Will's pride has faded into a miserable monotony. He is soaked completely through with sweat, and he's counting his steps to try to keep his brain from breaking down.

Every time he passes one of Hannibal's wealthy neighbors weeding their flowers, he flinches and cowers like a dog. They might be spies. Hannibal could have moved into an entire neighborhood of serial killers. Maybe they all work together, keeping each other's secrets.

A vivid vision of Wound Man decorated with pruning shears and trowels passes before his mind's eye, followed by a vision of a living woman being run over by a high-powered lawn mower.

He attempts to be discreet as he vomits weakly into someone's recycling bin.

Hannibal's neighbors are almost certainly not serial killers. Probably. There would definitely be more dead bodies.

He grinds his teeth and resolves not to think any more until he has counted out at least a thousand steps.

Finally he reaches the gas station. The last hundred yards, tripping over grass and parking barriers, seem to take twice as long as the miles that have gone before them.

He yanks open the door and is hit with a blast of cool air-conditioning.

He waits in line behind a couple of teenagers buying condoms and cigarettes. The girl smirks at him, flaunting her low-cut top. Perhaps she expects him to be scandalized by her bad behavior?

But Will is no longer capable of judging anyone. He stares blankly at her until she starts to look scared and turns away, tugging on her boyfriend's arm.

Now it is Will's turn to speak to the cashier, a tall young man with the zombified look of the minimum wage employee.

He licks his lips.

"I need to use your phone. I've been kidnapped, but I escaped, and I need to call someone to pick me up. Please."

The kid looks as if he's waiting for Will to tell him it's a joke, but he hands over a cordless phone.

"D'you want me to call 911 or something…?"

Will shakes his head, punching in Jack's number.

"What?" Jack sounds pissed off.

"Jack! It's Will. Hannibal kidnapped me, Jack, but I'm at the gas station by his house and I need you to come get me. You know where it is, right?"

Jack sighs, and speaks in a voice that says very clearly that he Does Not Have Time for this.

"Dr. Lecter didn't kidnap you, Will. He's your psychiatrist. You broke down at a crime scene and he took over your care. He's your friend, remember? Now I'm just gonna call him and let him know where you are…"

"No! No no no! You can't call him, Jack, he's a murderer! He'll eat me, Jack, I'm not kidding! You have to, you have to, you have to come get me!"

A strong arm wraps around his waist and someone takes the phone from his hand.

Jack?  
No, I left my office as soon as I got the call alerting me that my home alarm system had been triggered.  
I thought it best not to restrain him.  
He doesn't like medication, but I've been giving him sedatives and anti-anxiety pills. Perhaps I should have started the anti-psychotics earlier…  
That's alright, I've already cancelled my afternoon appointments.  
Delusions. Sometimes he sees me and thinks I'm one of the killers.  
Yes, I will. Sorry to have bothered you. Have a good day, Jack.  
Will stares at the floor. He's not entirely sure if this is real life or a hallucination. It's possible that he's lying passed out in a puddle of urine on the floor of the gas station.

Then Hannibal turns him, presses Will's face into his jacket, smooths over his curls. The warmth and smell of him are definitely real. Will's heart sinks even as he nuzzles into the offered comfort.

"Shh, now. There's a good boy."

The doctor speaks over Will's head.

"I'm sorry if we have disturbed you. I am a psychiatrist, and this man is my patient. He's suffering from delusions and has wandered away. If I had known he was capable of such directed movement, I would have made sure he was more secure. Has he harmed any people or property?"

The kid at the register sounds bewildered.

"…No. No, man, he just came in here looking like super freaked out and asked to borrow the phone. He told me not to call the cops, but I texted my manager. Is he gonna be, like, okay?"

Hannibal moves under Will, taking something from his pocket.

"He will be fine. Thank you for being kind to him. He's quite delicate. Here is my business card, in case your manager has any questions regarding the incident. Time to go home now, Will."

Hannibal turns, sweeps Will from the store. Will is careful not to look up or focus on anything. It feels oddly like the first time, when Hannibal guided him away from a crime scene.

The parallels continue, as Hannibal tucks Will into the car and buckles his seatbelt for him.

But this time, Will knows what is coming. He was warned, but he was a fool. Stupid to think he could just walk out, stupid to think anyone would believe the truth.

And now he is going to be punished. Hannibal Lecter does not suffer fools gladly.

The car ride takes only a few minutes, and then they are home. Will follows Hannibal mutely into the house.

"Did you eat lunch?"

Will shakes his head.

"Go into the library and wait for me. I will bring a tray."

Following instructions feels almost calming. He knows he is weak, but fighting for sanity takes nearly all of his energy, and running away was both frightening and exhausting. At least here, Hannibal makes all the decisions. Will just has to be a good boy.

Hannibal enters the room, carrying a tray with a single chicken salad sandwich and a glass of ice water.

He sets it on the end table next to Will and seats himself in the opposing armchair. Apparently they are going to have a therapy session.

Hannibal laces his fingers together, looks pointedly at the food and then at Will.

Will shakes his head. His brain is screaming human salad sandwich, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Hannibal presses his lips together, flares his nostrils, and blinks once, very slowly.

Will takes a bite of the sandwich, and the predator relaxes back into the Good Doctor.

"Why did you run away, Will?"

His voice is so light, as though they're back in the office, discussing nightmares.

Will doesn't know what to say to keep himself safe. He can't lie, but he can't tell the truth.

"I wanted to see my dogs."

Hannibal looks benign and accommodating. The mask fits so well, you'd almost think it was real.

"If being apart from them is hindering your therapy, perhaps I can have Abigail bring one by for a visit. Was that the only reason you left?"

Hannibal looks at the sandwich again, and Will takes a bite before he speaks. The food feels like defeat.

"No," he speaks to his knees, "No. I left because I was scared."

No matter what Will says, Hannibal's voice never gets any louder. At least Crawford and Will's father had the grace to shout when they were angry.

"Do I frighten you, Will?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid…If I stay here too long, I'm afraid I'll become like you."

Will grips his water glass in one hand, rubs his face with the other. This is terrible. This is the worst thing. Why did he ever leave? He could be sitting in this library alone, reading journal articles and despising himself.

"Would that be so bad? I am a successful man, Will. I have a good career, friends, hobbies…"

Will lets out a laugh that sounds more like a gasp.

"Hobbies? Your hobby is killing and cooking people!"

"And I am very good at it. Eat your sandwich."

Will eats. The voice is commanding, balancing on a razor-thin line between entertained and furious. If he obeys, hopefully Hannibal will stay happy and not punish him.

"Now. I explicitly told you to be a good boy, and not to do anything unwise. Did you forget?"

A bite of sandwich gets stuck in Will's throat, and his entire body breaks out in goosebumps. He needs to go to the bathroom.

"No. I didn't forget."

"I'm glad you at least took my lessons about lying seriously. However, I'm afraid I am going to have to discipline you for disobeying me directly. I was forced to cancel all of my afternoon patients. That was very rude."

Will sets the sandwich and the water back on the tray. He rubs his hands over and over and over his knees.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I got scared and I messed up and I'm sorry."

"Hush. I accept your apology. However, it has occurred to me that I have been remiss in asking you to help out around the house. Perhaps you are feeling as though you aren't useful. Therefore, you will assist me in preparing Liver Gateaux this evening. I need you to clean the livers, removing veins and fat."

Will's entire body goes cold with shock. He can't do this. He was expecting pain or handcuffs. He wishes Hannibal would just take off his belt and beat him. Because he can't, can't, can't do this. He can't step any closer to the edge, or he won't be able to pull back.

He doesn't realize he's shaking and muttering until Hannibal lifts him from his chair and leads him out of the room.

"Calm down, Will. There is still time for you to rest before I need your help. I'm sorry you've had a bad day. I should have realized that you would need more guidance. You are still healing."

He moves through the house like a puppet, allowing Hannibal to remove his shoes and lay him on top of the bed. He stares at the blank wall with wide, glassy eyes, gnawing mindlessly on his knuckle until Hannibal removes his hand from his mouth.

Surprisingly, he curls up behind Will and places his own hand in Will's mouth. Will feels like a puppy being told it's harmless. He bites and worries at Hannibal's hand, trying to hurt him, get him to react. Hannibal laughs instead, kissing Will's neck and running a hand from his sternum to his navel, over and over, until Will calms down and lays still.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys cook dinner. Will is bad and he feels bad.

After a cuddle and a shower, both of which Will survives by forcibly filling his brain with static, he finds himself standing in front of Hannibal's spotless counter as the other man ties an apron around his waist. He swallows and tries to ignore the way his body reacts to Hannibal's hands on his lower back. Hannibal seems to draw all of his instincts closer to the surface, rendering his coping mechanisms useless. 

He stares down at a pair of pale pink livers huddled together on a bamboo cutting board. His hands are shaking so badly, he's likely to end up in the Emergency Room. Actually, that might not be a bad idea… If people found out Hannibal was giving Will access to sharp objects, they might remove him from the psychiatrist's care. In the psych ward, he wouldn't have been allowed so much as a paperclip. 

He dismisses this plan, because Hannibal would simply stitch Will up himself (he is a _surgeon_ ), and then punish him for hurting himself. 

Will clears his throat and asks, "Can I have a valium? Please." 

Hannibal inhales deeply and sighs into Will's neck, bringing his hands up to rest on Will's biceps. Why is he still so close? 

"No. This is a lesson, and it is important that you retain your full memory and your natural emotions. If you blunt them with medication, the lesson will be useless. I will keep you calm." 

Hannibal guides Will's right hand to the handle of a sharp knife, wrapping his own hand around Will's shaking one.

Will swallows.

"What am I supposed to be learning?" 

Hannibal's lips brush delicately against his neck. It doesn't feel like an accident.

"First, you are learning how to prepare liver. Use the knife to lift the outer membrane away from the body of the organ, like this. Good. Now begin cutting along the diagonal. Even slices." 

Hannibal removes his hands from around Will's and replaces them on his waist. Now he is kissing Will's neck fully, sucking a bruise in the shadow of his jaw, running his teeth up the curve of Will's ear. He suppresses a moan with difficulty, managing to speak instead.

"What…are you _doing_?

Hannibal purrs and runs his nose along Will's hairline.

"This is part of the lesson, dear one. You will help me cook, and you will _enjoy_ it." 

"This part requires careful attention. Examine each slice, and use the kitchen shears to remove any large blood vessels, like this. If you see any extraneous fat or discolored spots, slice them out and discard them. Unfortunately, humans are not so careful in their diets as farm animals." 

Hannibal turns his attention from Will's hands to Will's neck, tracing around his upper vertebrae with tiny kitten licks before settling down to bite the meaty trapezius. 

Will is steadier now, splitting his focus between the organ before him and the man behind him. One of Hannibal's hands is resting gently next to the cutting board, and Will entertains a brightly lit fantasy of slicing into it with his knife. He would carve out the rind of skin between thumb and forefinger first, then trace along the back of the hand and snip out the tendons. Perhaps he could shear off each layer independently, examining muscle and fat before reaching pure white bone. Hannibal's metacarpals would be a sight to see. 

A sharp voice brings him out of his reverie.

"Will. What are you thinking about?"

"You," Will answers easily, "Thinking about your body." 

He feels the smile against the curve of his neck. 

"We both ought to focus on our guest, yes? Once you have finished cleaning each slice, you simply chop them into smaller pieces. Can you prepare the other without my guidance?" 

Will nods, then turns to look over his shoulder. Hannibal looks decidedly smug. As they kiss, Will drifts away again, wondering what Hannibal's liver looks like. Such a fit man must have gorgeous organs. He bets it'd be large, with thick white vessels and hardly any fat. A glorious deep red, the same color as his eyes. Will feels an erection stirring between his thighs, and then Hannibal pulls away, holding Will's face so he cannot follow. The chef nods toward the cutting board before retreating to select his spices. 

Will turns back to his work, and focuses on breathing slowly, in and out. Everything is getting confused. The way he feels when Hannibal touches him, and the images in his head, and the human flesh under his knife. What is happening to him? 

"Do you remember everyone you've killed, or do they all start to blend together?" 

He hears Hannibal pause, can imagine the way he would look, with his head cocked to one side. Always so cautious. 

"I can choose to remember, if I wish. I store all the relevant information in my head, to eliminate the need for files. But aside from that, no. Some stand out, and others…I no longer recall their faces or their words. Is it important to you, that I remember?"

Will sets aside the rough cubes of the first liver, and begins to peel the membrane off the second. 

"They might be just meat to you, but to me, they're people. I'd like to know who I've eaten, if only so I can apologize to their ghosts." 

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Will feels his face crack into a painful facsimile of a smile, baring his teeth.

"How could I not? I'm surrounded by them. They live in my head, in my house. They inhabit the bodies of my acquaintances. I know more ghosts than I do living people." 

Hannibal remains silent for a long time after that, measuring spices and adding ingredients to his fancy food processor. 

When he finishes, he presses himself to Will's back again, rubbing his chin along Will's shoulder. God, the way the man _smells_. 

He watches as Will finishes chopping the second liver, and then he murmurs, "I am not a ghost, dear one." 

Will sets down his knife, turns around inside Hannibal's embrace, and allows the monster to take him. He is done being careful. There's no escape, and he _wants_. 

This kiss _is_ bruising, all-consuming. Will feels as though he's missing time, like Hannibal keeps jumping ahead of him by three or four seconds, so Will can never get his bearings. He has no control here. 

Hannibal grips Will's hair firmly, tugging just enough to enhance the pleasure, and Will is embarrassed to find himself shifting his hips, seeking friction like a teenager. 

Hannibal slides a leg between Will's, and growls into his mouth, "You have to _take_ what you want, Will." 

So he does. His hands had been clutching awkwardly at Hannibal's shoulders, but now he grabs onto the ass that has been distracting him for months, grabs it with both hands and forcibly rocks their hips together. 

They're no longer kissing, really, merely grunting into each other's necks, breathing in each other's sweat. Will takes a sick pleasure in wrinkling Hannibal's suit, and Hannibal seems determined to mark Will with as many lovebites as his fair skin will hold, though he doesn't bite hard enough to bruise.

It becomes too much far too quickly, and Will ruts faster, clutching and begging. He finally comes in six hot pulses, harder than he has in a decade. The rush is so powerful he blacks out, doesn't feel his partner turning him roughly and pressing his front against the counter.

Then Will sees his own white knuckles holding tight to the stainless steel, staring down at a set of beautifully prepared human livers while a cannibal thrusts against him. 

He gasps out Will's name as he comes, and Will wonders if it's possible to die of self-loathing. 

***

He feels broken. He feels as though he is no longer larger enough to fill his own body, imagines himself as a twisted little Gollum hunched over in one of Will Graham's legs. 

Hannibal says that giving in to his instincts will make him feel powerful, but the power only lasts a moment before he feels smaller than before. He has been steadily shrinking down for years, wasting away because of his evil thoughts. Now that he has graduated to evil deeds, he expects that there is no hope left for Will Graham. The part of him that is a Good Man will wither and die, leaving an empty shell for the Chesapeake Ripper to play with. 

Will supposes the crime scenes will be glorious. And with himself gone, there will be no one to solve the puzzles. A pity, really. Creating art that no one will appreciate. 

Good Will surges up as the puppet is cleaning itself of sweat and semen, and forces their body to vomit a bit of human flesh and stomach acid down the shower drain. 

It is the third shower they have taken today. Will considers the possibility that Hannibal has trapped him in a time loop. Unlikely, but not impossible. Hannibal Lecter is surely more than a man. There is no telling what he is capable of. 

He feels as though he ought to come to some sort of decision in the shower, develop some plan or guideline for his future actions. In the end, he recognizes only that he is both outmatched and exhausted. 

His escape attempt failed. His punishment was a cruel pleasure. But both are now over, and he needs to rest if he's ever going to accomplish anything. 

For the rest of the evening, he will allow Dr. Lecter to feed and coddle him, playing the good marionette. If he can avoid being drugged, he might survive the week. Then he can run deep into the woods, and allow himself to grow feral, becoming a member of a pack of wild dogs. He looks forward to the day he no longer remembers his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I am extremely self-conscious about this chapter, because it's my first time writing sex-things. It's like I'm a virgin all over again. A gay writing virgin.   
>  \- I have new meds and am sleeping through the night, so I might be updating less frequently.   
>  \- I love everybody who has commented.   
>  \- Fannibals are my favorite kind of people.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Syllogismos.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Will does not go feral, as he did at breakfast, nor does he vomit. He instead feels himself disassociating, splitting into segments and choosing the part of him most able to cope with this situation. 

He pushes down all of his neuroses and allows a bland persona to rise to the surface. The shadow is something like what he wears when lecturing at Quantico: scientific mindset, very little emotion, capable of completing tasks and telling people what they want to hear. 

So Will eats carefully and compliments Hannibal on the meal, and he participates in a bland discussion of mythology. (He patently refuses to give in to Hannibal's obvious desire to manipulate Will through myths and fairy tales. For a psychiatrist, the man is occasionally less than subtle.) 

As he helps to clean the kitchen, he feels a familiar mixture of pride and anxiety. Pride, because he successfully negotiated a social situation. Anxiety, because he will surely slip up soon and everyone will realize he is only playing at sanity. 

Will _is_ capable of appropriate behavior, but only for short periods of time. Then he either escapes, displays instability, or becomes unbearably rude. Escape has already proven impossible, rudeness will result in punishment, and psychotic episodes are uniquely unpleasant. 

Perhaps there is a fourth option. It was necessary to pin down his emotions during dinner, but he is too exhausted to continue. Instead of continuing his puppet act, he could try suppressing his knowledge of Hannibal's true nature, thereby allowing himself to enjoy a quiet evening with a good friend. 

***

Hannibal leads him to the library after dinner and gestures at the shelves to suggest that he can read anything he'd like. But all Will really wants to do is curl up on the couch with his head in Hannibal's lap. 

He runs this potential course of action through the Hannibal filter in his mind, determines that this is something the other man would approve of, and trips over to the sofa. 

Will rests the back of his head against Hannibal's thigh and looks up at him. He has such an exquisite face. His sparseness of expression only serves to make the tiny movements of his eyebrows and lips more powerful. 

Now he is looking down at Will with mild surprise, and yes -- pleasure. Some part of Will wags its tail in ecstasy. _He has pleased his master!_ Will's new internal puppetmaster presses down the guilt that he would normally feel at such submission. Tonight he is going to relax. Tomorrow he can take up the fight. 

"What are you reading?" he asks. The book is not in a language Will reads, but it appears to be an inexpensive paperback. He has always imagined the doctor studying ancient tomes bound in gilt and leather, but clearly he must read contemporary books as well. 

"It is a Russian translation of a Chinese science fiction novel, somewhat similar to Orwell's _1984_. I believe the English title would be _The Prosperous Time: China 2013._ "

Will pushes his shoes off with his toes so that he can pull his feet up onto the couch, pressing his cheek into Hannibal's warm thigh. 

"Seems like odd reading material for a psychiatrist."

Hannibal reaches a hand down to pet Will's head, giving him the contact he was practically begging for.

"I don't think so. After all, government is simply psychology practiced on a massive scale."

Hannibal's fingers scratch gently at Will's scalp, lift up a curl that was stuck behind his ear, twist a fluffy bit of hair until it incorporates into a larger curl. Will feels himself slipping deeper into the comfortable haze that he only ever experiences with Hannibal. 

He murmurs his next question slowly, "What happens in the book?"

"Hmm, China has risen to become the most powerful country in the world overnight, but three citizens believe that the populace has suffered a loss of time. One month, stolen and concealed by the government. By a strange coincidence, I am currently caring for a patient who loses time." 

Will frowns, turns his head so that Hannibal can scratch the other side. He doesn't like being reminded of how carefully his entrapment was planned.

"Did you choose the book with me in mind?" 

Hannibal changes his technique, smoothing Will's hair in broad, heavy strokes.

"No. I did not realize the book contained memory loss when I began reading it. It is perhaps not highly relevant to your experience, but still fascinating." 

A shift of his body and a change of his tone tells Will that the conversation portion of the evening has ended. Dr. Lecter is reading now. 

Will continues to wiggle and sigh as fingers play through his hair. When he pushes aside all the thinking parts of his brain, he feels...content. 

It is a feeling that he associates with Thursdays. When Will was a sophomore in college, his Thursday classes ended at two in the afternoon. His roommate at the time was a trustworthy fellow who spent nearly all his free time working at his desk. Will would use Thursday afternoons to make up a week's worth of restless nights with one truly sublime nap. He would fall asleep with bright sunlight warming his face and the knowledge that someone else was available to handle intruders. 

Tranquility is not a feeling that Will has much experience with, but he keeps several memories of serenity clean and untainted in the basement of his mind. A peaceful morning on the city bus, a student bed on a sunny afternoon, a midnight walk in the fields outside his house. And now this. Playing pet for a dashing psychiatrist. Except it doesn't really feel like playing anymore. He _is_ a pet. 

Hannibal threads his fingers down under Will's mat of curls, rubs firm circles with the pads of his fingers. A brief, ridiculous thought floats across Will's mind: Jimmy Price dusting Will's head for fingerprints. The thought flutters away, and Will thinks instead about whether he can pay someone to play with his hair. It would be worth the money. 

When Hannibal lifts his hand to turn a page, he returns with a different pattern of petting. Now he gathers his fingertips at the crown of Will's head and drives them away from each other with a quickness that buzzes directly down Will's spine. He repeats the movement twice more, until Will's squirming gets to be too much and he returns to gentle stroking. 

Hannibal lowers his hand to rub gently along the side of Will's neck. The lovebites from earlier in the evening have already begun to fade. None of them will bruise; Hannibal bit just hard enough to pinken the skin for a few hours. 

Will revels in the kind touch. He feels desperate and needy, and a hot bubble of bittersweet pain swells up under his breastbone. _Skin hunger._ He wonders if this is how Hannibal felt when he began to kill. As though he'd been denying himself something essential to human existence. 

Will is crying now. Warm, plump tears that roll down his cheeks faster than he can blink them away. He hasn't cried like this in years. Normally he cries in a dissociative state that he barely remembers, or squeezes out a couple of thin tears when he feels overwhelmed. Tonight he feels fully present in the moment, almost exhilarated by the pure sensation of it. 

Hannibal easily adapts to the new situation, running his fingers up Will's neck and under his chin, collecting saltwater and lapping it off of his fingers before returning to trace the same path. 

Will reaches a lull in the storm, and manages to gulp out, "What do you want from me?"

"Everything," Hannibal replies, stroking Will's cheeks to gather any stray tears. 

"W-what if I don't want to give you everything?"

The weeping resumes, slightly less intense than before. 

"You _will_ want to give me everything, eventually. I am a patient man." 

As an adult, Will recognizes that he should feel ashamed of sobbing like a child, but he only feels relieved. It is a form of catharsis somewhat similar to the way he feels after inhabiting the mind of righteous revenge killer. Yes, it was violent and messy, but it's over now. Now he can rest. 

He snuggles into Hannibal's lap and sighs deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This took a long time because I was v. v. nervous and my beta was busy with RL.  
> 2\. The break was fruitful and I have the next chapter finished and part of the chapter after that.  
> 3\. All books mentioned are real books. Hannibal reads books I wanna read (but can't because I'm not fancy enough), and Will reads books I'm currently reading.  
> 4\. Okay, I know I said today would be Take-Your-Human-Pet-To-Work-Day, but the boys wanted to cuddle, and I couldn't deny them. They go to work in the next chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to work! Prepare for cameos by Hannibal's patients!

The next morning goes quietly enough. Hannibal doesn't attempt to initiate anything beyond cuddling, and Will finds that his words have dried up sometime overnight. 

He promised himself he would fight when he felt better, but it would be so easy to allow himself just one more day in the comfort of Hannibal's arms. Maybe two more days.

Still, when Hannibal announces that he is taking Will to work with him, his mind easily spins out into escape plans. Where will Hannibal put him? In the waiting room? He could easily walk out the door and onto the street. Pick someone's pocket and catch a bus or a taxi. If he made it to the bus terminal, he could be in Florida by tomorrow.

That hope is trampled immediately after breakfast. Hannibal kneels at his feet, unzipping a fine leather case. How is it possible for a man to dominate from his knees? 

"This device is similar to an electric collar. One part goes around your ankle, and the other stays here in my pocket. You cannot remove your anklet without the key. Should you travel more than 500 yards from me, you will receive an electric shock. The shocks will increase in intensity every 10 seconds until you are back within my range. It was not made to go beyond the voltage tolerable to a human being, but I have had this particular device modified to remove that safeguard. Should you run from me, you will shortly find yourself in a great deal of pain. I will be immediately alerted of your bad behavior, and I will come to collect you. Is that clear?"

Will nods, swallowing. He can still do this. He can borrow a cell phone from one of the other patients in the waiting room. Dr. Lecter requests that his patients leave their phones at home, but surely people break that rule all the time. He'll do better this time, call Alana instead of Jack. She's never trusted Hannibal's "unconventional therapy," and she'll come to Will when he calls.

***

He misses his first chance.

It's Dr. Lecter's third appointment of the day. In the ten minutes between the first and second, he had drawn Will into his office, asked whether Will had suffered time loss or hallucinations that morning (he had not), and then organized his desk while Will sat quietly on the sofa. Like a tame dog. 

This time, in the gap between the hours, a well-dressed young woman enters the waiting room before the previous patient has left Dr. Lecter's office. She is guiding a ragged man who is clearly her brother. They have the exact same Roman nose and narrow chin, but otherwise, they look as though they've purposely decided to be opposites. 

The woman is wearing a silk blouse, tweed pencil skirt, and stilettos that most likely cost more than Will's car. Her hair has been curled, her make-up is perfectly symmetrical, and her emerald earrings match her necklace. One of the stones of the necklace is flipped, creating a kink in the chain. Will almost reaches up to press it back down. It would surely drive the woman crazy if she knew.

Her brother is wearing an ancient pair of jeans and a tiny band t-shirt made for a teenage boy. The jeans had begun to tear at the bottoms where he stepped on the hems, but now the rips go halfway up his calves. The collar is separating from the body of the shirt, and there are holes at both armpits. He isn't wearing a jacket, despite the weather, and his arms are covered in track marks. 

He speaks in the overly loud, expansive manner of a narcissist.

"No, what I don't understand, is why you won't fucking _help_ me."

The woman answers in a cautious, tired voice,

"I'm trying to help you, Johnny, but I don't know how. Why aren't you wearing the coat I got you?" 

The man snarls, waving his arms dramatically.

"I _lost_ that coat! I _told_ you I lost it! I just need a laptop so I can play poker and make money. I met this guy, he said he would pay me to play for him, but only if I had my own laptop. I could be making a lot of money, you know, maybe go pro, but you won't ever lift a finger to help your own fucking brother!" 

Will notices that the woman is careful never to touch her brother. She can't be more than 30. 

"I did buy you a laptop, John. A year and a half ago. You sold it for drugs. I _am_ trying to help you, though. That's why we're seeing Dr. Lecter." 

"That fucking shrink! He's just wants to take your money! And I told you, that guy I was living with _stole_ that computer! It's not my fault." 

The woman sighs and drops into one of the chairs. 

"Last time you told me the laptop got broken, honey. The time before that you said your ex-girlfriend took it. You can't even keep your lies straight. I went to the pawn shop by your old apartment. I know you sold the stuff I got you. You don't have to lie to me anymore." 

The man gets right up in his sister's face, leaning down over her chair. Will has never seen an intimidation tactic fail so miserably. The girl doesn't even blink.

"Who did you talk to? Hussein? That guy's a fucking liar. He said--"

Thankfully, Hannibal interrupts by opening his office door. 

"Thank you, Mr. Huxtable, I will see you next week." 

A rabbity man shuffles past Will and the warring siblings.

"Mr. and Ms. O'Leary. A pleasure, as always. Please come in." 

Hannibal doesn't even glance at Will. He is playing doctor now, and he doesn't have time to spare for pets.

The man stalks toward Dr. Lecter, although he stops several feet away. Even crazy people know better than to threaten the good doctor. 

"I'm not seeing you! I don't need any more shrinks lying to me, or trying to drug me. You're just trying to make people think I'm crazy! You--" 

The girl interrupts with a voice like pure steel.

"Johnny. If you don't speak with Dr. Lecter, I won't give you money for cigarettes, and the next time you threaten to commit suicide, I'll have the cops put you on 96 hour hold."

To Hannibal, she adds, "He's using again. Says he isn't, but he is. Just…try to talk to him, please? I'll pay you double." 

Dr. Lecter smiles, gestures Johnny through the door. 

"That won't be necessary, Anna. Have you given any more thought to seeing someone yourself? I could give you a referral…" 

She snorts, but smiles good-naturedly.

"No, thank you, doctor. I know it's not healthy, but I'm going to stick with the tried-and-true method of ignoring my emotions until they go away. I'll be back for him at ten to." 

Hannibal inclines his head in acknowledgement, then enters his office, leaving Will alone with the woman. 

He could ask her for a cell phone. She definitely has one. And she isn't leaving right away, either. She's slumped down in her armchair, massaging her eyebrows with two fingers. 

She feels him watching, glances up.

"Sorry you had to hear all that. I love him, but…he doesn't make good choices." 

Will swallows audibly and looks down at his book. He speaks to the cover.

"Most of us don't." 

He hears her heels click as she walks away, hears her huff out a breath as she tugs on the heavy wooden door, and he hears the _buh-bump_ of the door falling shut behind her. 

And that's that. Will has let his opportunity pass him by, and he's left alone with a book about the history of espionage against the United States. Apparently it's all due to our national trait of naivete. We don't believe anyone who really knows us could want to hurt us. How could they, when we're so lovable? 

***

At the end of the hour, Hannibal delivers Johnny O'Leary to his weary sister and brings Will into the office for lunch. 

He tells Will that they are eating croque norvégien, which turns out to be French for "grilled cheese sandwiches with smoked salmon." There is also a Carrot Remoulade, sour lemonade, and one tiny macaron for each of them. 

Hannibal's work meals are simpler than what he cooks at home, but it is still the most ridiculously intricate packed lunch Will has ever seen. 

He remains silent while Hannibal arranges their meal and names each dish. He can't stop thinking about the siblings.

"Are you going to kill John O'Leary?"

Hannibal takes a delicate bite of his sandwich before turning the question back to him.

"Would you like me to kill him?" 

Apparently being in this office means a return to psychiatry games.

"No, of course not. I don't want you to kill anyone. But I think his sister might be relieved." 

Hannibal sips his lemonade and leans back in his chair. 

"Mr. O'Leary contributes nothing to society, and actively harms everyone around him. The world would be improved if he were dead. There is nothing wrong with wanting him dead." 

Will takes an enormous bite of sandwich in order to put off answering. He is grateful to be eating something not-human, though he wouldn't put it past Hannibal to sneak body parts into nearly anything. 

"I don't want him to die. I want him to behave better. So he doesn't hurt people. He's obviously sick." 

Hannibal is eating, but he tips his head as though acknowledging a joke. When he finishes, he speaks. 

"According to Ms. O'Leary, whom I believe to be trustworthy, John has been a degenerate drug addict since he was 14 years old. He is now 32. She and her parents have provided him with every form of therapy they could find, and watched him reject their gifts in favor of heroin. I do not believe he is capable of changing." 

Will smears his left hand over his face.

"If you don't think he can change, why do you keep seeing him?" 

The doctor shrugs unapologetically.

"Anna pays me quite a lot of money." 

Will eats silently. He doesn't know how Hannibal expects him to respond to something like that. A few minutes later, the man speaks again. 

"You needn't worry about my killing Mr. O'Leary, Will. I never mix business with pleasure." 

"What do you call me, then? Am I still your patient, now that you're keeping me in your house? Now that you've kissed me?" 

Will gets up to walk around the room. He doesn't want to look at Hannibal's stupid, handsome face anymore. When he looks away, he can imagine that he is having a conversation with one of his hallucinations, but when he looks back, all he sees is Hannibal, real and unchanging. 

"You were never my patient, Will. We were simply having conversations. We can discuss our physical relationship if you'd like, but I am much more interested in why you didn't request that Anna O'Leary lend you her cell phone."

Will climbs the ladder to the upper level. All the blood in his body seems to be draining into his toes. He feels as though the vessels are being steadily refilled with an icy gel, starting from the center of his skull. 

"Because it was a test. Just like it was a test yesterday when you left the doors unlocked. I'm not interested in being your goldfish, Hannibal. I'm not going to swim into the side of the tank over and over again, just so you can laugh at me." 

"I would never laugh at you, dear Will. Come down and eat your macaron. They are flavored with a rare species of vanilla bean that a colleague of mine brought back from Ecuador." 

Will eats the damn cookie.

***

After lunch comes a tall businessman with oily black hair and an arrogantly handsome face. He arrives five minutes late, and practically cackles when he sees Will perched on the edge of Dr. Lecter's desk. 

"Hey, doc. Sorry I'm late. Who's your pretty little friend?" 

He leers at Will and rubs a long finger over his thin lower lip. Will thinks he looks like a young Grim Reaper. 

"Please have a seat, Hugh. This is my colleague, Special Agent Will Graham of the FBI. In the future, I would prefer that you not ogle my guests. It is rude." 

He waves Will out the door. Will smirks over his shoulder at the now-abashed Hugh, and pats his hip where his gun would normally be. 

***

A lovely blonde woman arrives just as the lecherous suit is leaving. She greets Hannibal by his first name, and he addresses her as Dr. Du Maurier. Will infers that this must be Hannibal's unconventional psychiatrist. 

She is wearing a raspberry skirt suit, with a high-necked blouse and a silk scarf. Battle armor, meant to increase the distance between herself and Hannibal. 

She turns to stare at Will, and he makes eye contact involuntarily. Hannibal gestures swiftly upward and Will rises from his seat, shakes hands awkwardly. 

"You must be Hannibal's friend." 

She accents the sentence strangely, suggesting that the title of 'Hannibal's friend' is worn by only one person. She is most likely correct. 

"Yeah. Nice to meet you, Dr. Du Maurier." 

Will focuses on the point of her shoulder, trying to avoid conversation. He hates the feeling of Hannibal watching him talk to other people. The feeling of being _analyzed_. 

The door shuts once again, and Will finds himself unable to return to his book. He drops his head to his knees instead, bent double in his chair. He has grown very attached to this chair over the course of the morning. He feels as though the furniture understands the danger he is in, and wishes to protect him. 

Will bites into his kneecap. How did it come to this? He is so vulnerable that he is imprinting on _furniture_. It is inevitable that he will be made to leave this waiting room, that he will be drawn into the arms of a man who plays at caring. His mind is primed. Ancient instincts will bind him to the only person who ever feeds him or touches him. 

Will spends the next thirty minutes floating through a haze of associations. Perhaps he sleeps at some point, but he's definitely awake when the next patient comes through.

She is a plump teenager with poorly dyed hair, maybe a year or two younger than Abigail. She holds a Young Adult novel over her face. The cover depicts a waif-like fairy-girl dancing into a dark and evil forest. Apparently this is what kids read these days. Will doesn't see the appeal. 

The girl is watching Will over the top of her book, so he closes his eyes again and pretends to sleep. He keeps his eyes shut as Dr. Du Maurier leaves the office and waiting room. 

He opens them five minutes later when she returns.

***

She sits next to Will, rather than across from him, which he appreciates. Easier to avoid eye contact. 

"Do you need help?" she whispers.

"What?" Will asks. 

This is his chance! _This is a trap._

She sighs. 

"I didn't realize that he'd get this possessive this quickly, but I can try to help you. He doesn't have to know you've spoken to me. If I send someone to the house, will they find any evidence against him?" 

Will's heart is racing. Send someone to the house? He doesn't…he can't…they'll take him to the psych ward, probably never let him out. Hannibal will go to prison, maybe get executed. Everyone else will come back, the stag, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the victims and the death and the designs…he'll probably never sleep again. No one will ever touch him again...

Will realizes he is hyperventilating when the doctor puts her hand on his shoulder and he leaps away from her and scuttles into a corner.

Her voice is strained now, as though she is speaking each word against her better judgement. 

"Mr. Graham…do you _want_ to leave Dr. Lecter?" 

He wheezes in six or seven false breaths before finally succeeding in sucking in half a lungful of air. 

Just enough to gasp out, "No!" louder than he'd intended. 

Dr. Du Maurier sounds as though she is grieving. 

"Then I've made my offer too late. I am sorry. I knew of his obsession with you, but I have very little power over Hannibal Lecter's actions." 

Will lets his head fall back against the wall with a thunk as he regains a modicum of control.

"Why me? Why not you?" 

Her pantyhose rasp against each other as she crosses her legs. 

"What do you mean?" 

Will lowers himself until he is actually sitting on the carpet, rather than crouching like a demon child. 

"Look at the two of us. You're educated and refined. You probably know about wine and classical music." 

He waves his hand to indicate the general sophistication of Dr. Du Maurier, then continues. 

"Before Hannibal started dressing me, I only owned four pairs of pants. My hobbies are fly-fishing, repairing boat engines, and adopting stray dogs. If I had my eyes closed, I probably couldn't tell the difference between red wine and white. So why me? Why not someone like you?" 

Each of Dr. Du Maurier's sentences is proceeded by a long pause as she chooses her words. Will wonders if she borrowed this habit from Hannibal, or he from her, or if they both spoke this way when they met. 

"Hannibal recently had the opportunity to strike up a friendship with a man much as you described. He was the kind of person who appreciated high culture, and he also shared some of Hannibal's more…esoteric hobbies."

Will interrupted, heart pounding like the backbeat of a southern rock song.

"Wait, you know? About Hannibal, about everything?"

She holds up a hand to stop him.

"I find it safer to know nothing about Hannibal's hobbies. But if I understand correctly, you do not share his inclinations?" 

Will stifles the urge to hide. For a moment, he thought he wasn't alone in his knowledge of the Ripper.

"No, I'm not like him. I try not to be like him. I don't want to be."

He clears his throat and tries to steer the conversation back onto the tracks.

"Why didn't he befriend that man? It sounds like he would have been able to understand Hannibal better than you or I." 

"He is not looking for someone who can understand him. Or at least, he is not _only_ looking for that." 

She chuckles softly as she stands.

"I believe he is looking for someone who can love him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Listen to "David" by Noah Gunderson. That is the song that was playing in Will's chest when he thought Dr. Du Maurier knew about the Ripper.
> 
> 2\. Will is reading Spying in America by Michael Sulick. I'm reading it, too. I finally got to the Cold War! It's not a fantastic book, but I recommend it if you're interested in espionage. The author thinks all spies in history were terrible at their jobs, which leads to a lot of unintentional humor. At the beginning of each chapter, I try to guess whether the spy will turn out to have been A.) Incompetent, B.) Ultimately useless, or C.) Both. 
> 
> 3\. I have a [tumblr!](http://www.without-a-license.tumblr.com) Mostly I just reblog Hannibal stuff and don't talk to anyone, but we can hang out if you want.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is dedicated to mjnobody, for her beautiful omegaverse fic [I could just eat you up (but not literally)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/833091). If you like Dom/sub overtones, you will love it. 
> 
> True fact: I didn't have to look up the lyrics to the song Will sings because I have had them memorized for years. Of the 285 hits it has on youtube, at least 85 of them are me.

Will is in the room he shares with Hannibal, awkwardly attempting to balance his bare feet on top of the headboard. He is completely dressed except for his shoes and socks, which are scattered across the bedroom floor. 

How did he get here? Where is Dr. Du Maurier? 

Answers fill in slowly and disjointedly, accompanied by a rising nausea and panic. 

There's a boy, trapping in the ceiling. He was screaming, crying, banging his tiny fists on the floor. Will is looking for a way to free him. He _has_ to free him.

He's knocking hard on the white ceiling with his fist, steadying himself with the other hand, and shouting.

"Stay put! Just stay calm! I'm going to get you out!" 

The pattern of tapping and sobbing stops. Will is pleased and surprised that he managed to comfort the child, but then he hears Hannibal. The boy does not want Hannibal to know he is up there. 

"Will? What are you doing?" 

Hannibal holds out an arm for Will to brace himself against as he steps down from his perch.

"I was… I lost time again. What happened?" 

Hannibal moves to collect Will's socks and shoes, placing the socks in a hamper and the shoes onto shoehorns. Really, Will should have suspected something earlier. No normal man could be so neat. 

"What is the last thing you remember?" 

Will's heart thuds in his chest, and he hunches over himself on the edge of the bed.

"Your office. After lunch. You were with your fifth appointment, I think. A teenage girl? I was waiting for you, and then I was here." 

Hannibal sits next to him and wraps an arm around Will, but he backs off when Will flinches. 

"I had one more appointment after that. A petite Asian woman, do you remember?"

Will shakes his head.

"Ah, well. I drove us home. I needed to start cooking, but you wanted to take a nap. You promised to help me chop vegetables when you woke up, and then you ran up here. I came when I heard you shouting. What were you doing?" 

He can't…

"Nothing. I don't remember what I was thinking." 

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder again, and Will tries to retract into his chest cavity like a turtle. 

"Will. Why were you knocking on my ceiling?" 

Will presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. 

"I was just…checking."

"Checking for what?"

Hannibal's voice seems to be getting softer and softer, until he reaches the tone one would use with a frightened child. 

"I thought I heard a boy in there."

"A boy?"

Will huffs out his annoyance. 

"Yes, a boy. A young male human. He was trapped." 

Hannibal is now rubbing slow circles across Will's right shoulder.

"Who was the boy, Will?" 

The answer seems to be just out of reach, hidden in a place that Will has no desire to visit. 

"I don't know. Nobody. Just a generic kid, I guess."

He feels Hannibal's warm breath against his cheek as the man leans ever closer.

"Was the boy you, Will?" 

Will laughs out loud and the moment breaks. Hannibal jerks back, disgruntled. 

"Was the boy me? Seriously? You should know better than to resort to the standard tricks of psychiatry with me, doctor. I am not standard." 

Hannibal gathers himself together, though he returns to his Doctor Voice. 

"No, you are certainly not. But I am a psychiatrist, not a mind-reader. Who was the boy?" 

Will feels slightly stronger, now that he has laughed at Dr. Lecter and simultaneously escaped his tender petting. 

"I know who it might have been. When I was six, we lived in Memphis for a while. My dad put me in this summer camp for low-income kids. One day we were swimming in the lake, and one of the kids had a seizure in the water and drowned. I think it was him." 

"The first life you failed to save." 

Will shakes his head.

"No, that's not it at all. I didn't even see him die, I was looking for frogs in the reeds. And it was his first seizure, so it's not like anyone could have predicted it. He just died." 

"I think we're making progress, Will. We're getting deeper into the roots of your psyche. Tell me, what was this little boy doing in my ceiling?" 

Will looks disappointed in Hannibal. His eyes are dead, lifeless in a way that they haven't been since he's been sleeping better. 

"You put him there, Hannibal. I'm trying to figure out a way to get him out." 

Hannibal advances again, this time laying a hand on Will's knee.

"Is the boy still there, Will? Can you hear him?"

Will nods tightly, and swallows. 

Hannibal gives him a pitying half-smile and massages his knee gently.

"I am sorry, Will. I had hoped that I would be able to frighten away most of your hallucinations, but I have failed. Allow me to get you some medicine, please." 

Will is shaking slightly, without any rhythm. His hands are curled into fists, with his thumbs set apart, and he is pressing them firmly into his thighs. He looks like an amateur film project in which a twitchy undergrad attempts to hold a camera steady while he aims it at a man dutifully trying not to move. 

Hannibal leaves, and Will hears the boy uncurl, hears him crawl across the ceiling so he is above Will's new place on the bed. 

"Is he gone? Are you gonna get me out?"

Will shakes his head, back and forth and back and forth. 

"No. You're not real. You're not _real_." 

The boy begins to cry. 

"I thought you were my friend! I thought you were gonna help me!" 

"Will?"

He starts and gasps violently. 

Hannibal. It's Hannibal, of course, in his charcoal vest, holding a glass of water and a tube of ointment. 

He sits next to Will on the bed again, and Will takes the water gratefully. 

At his first swallow, he feels the water entering his lungs and trying to crowd out his air. He is going to die now, because the killer is the water and the water doesn't care. No motive, no message, just death, death, death…

He coughs up all over himself. 

Hannibal takes the glass and places it on the floor, carefully sets two pills on the sheets next to Will, and kneels again. 

"Shh, shh, that's alright. We'll try again. For now, I am going to unlock your cuff." 

He lifts Will's ankle onto his raised knee and removes it with a tiny silver key. Left behind is a circlet of chafed skin about half an inch wide. 

Hannibal drops his head and licks a warm stroke across the front of Will's ankle. 

"Ah, my friend, I am sorry. Allow me to apply some antibiotic ointment, please. Tomorrow we will lubricate the cuff with aloe vera." 

Will can't actually feel it. He can't feel anything below his shoulders. He knows that the rest of him exists, and he can figure out that his ankle stings if he thinks about it for a while, but the signals seem to be coming from very far away. 

Hannibal finishes smearing on the ointment, wipes his fingers neatly on a handkerchief, then sits on the bed with his hot thigh pressed against Will from knee to hip. The boy is still sobbing quietly above them. Will tries to remember what he looked like. Spindly arms and legs, warm cocoa skin, and a fuzzy cap of tight curls. Just like all the other children, except that this one is dead. 

"Can you swallow these for me, Will?" 

He looks at the pills resting in the hollow of Hannibal's hand. One is round, chalky, and white: this is the Klonopin, Will is familiar with it. The other is a large teal-and-blue capsule that he does not recognize. He touches it with his fingertip.

"What is this one?"

"It is a vitamin. You are malnourished and vitamins will help repair your body." 

Something isn't right. What is Hannibal hiding from him? 

"You're lying to me! I know you're lying. That doesn't look like any vitamin I've ever seen." 

A thin bar of steel underlies Hannibal's cool bedside manner now. 

"This is what I have been giving you for the past four days. I thought you were going to be a good boy and swallow your own pills. Would you rather I prepare a syringe?" 

Will shakes his head. The boy above joins his chant. 

_You're lying, you're lying, you're lying._

Hannibal grasps the nape of Will's neck, tilting his head back, and runs a finger along the seam of his lips. Will's mouth drops open and his tongue flickers out to greet it before he can stop himself. 

"I am your doctor, dear one. I only wish to make you feel better." 

Hannibal moves both pills from his palm to his fingers, then reaches deep into Will's mouth like a lion tamer. He drops the pills neatly, just above Will's esophagus, and returns with the glass of water. 

"Small sips now, Will. There's a good boy. You're doing so well." 

He swallows the small sips of water that Hannibal drips into his mouth, his throat moving convulsively. The water feels so cool against his lips, and the hand feels so warm and strong against his neck. He _is_ a good boy. 

The child above him is tapping rapidly against the drywall. _No! Don't swallow any water. You can't, you can't!_

Will ignores him and obeys Hannibal. Hannibal thinks he can drink the water. Hannibal thinks he is a good boy. 

When the glass is empty, Hannibal kisses Will's temple and lifts him gently to his feet. 

"Come downstairs and help me wash the vegetables. I would rather you not handle a knife just now." 

***

Will stands at the sink, rinsing a leaf of Swiss Chard. He rubs his thumb against the heavy stalk, massaging out the grit. It feels almost intimate, handling things that Hannibal will consume. 

His face heats up as he imagines rubbing his fingers through the grooves in Hannibal's body. Under his jawbone, between his ribs, into the deep V of his hips… 

His skin feels like it's burning now, and he's afraid he's going to drip sweat onto the clean vegetables. A spasm rolls through his groin when he imagines Hannibal eating food salted with Will's sweat, and then he pushes his face into the sink of icy water. 

Hannibal's hands are on his shoulders immediately, dragging him back from the sink and lifting him up to sit on the kitchen counter. 

Will thinks that he probably shouldn't be allowed on the counter. 

"Hannibal, what is happening to me? My head feels like it's on fire. What the hell did you give me?" 

The doctor wrings out a washcloth and laves gently at Will's burning flesh. 

"Your fever is spiking again, good Will. You cannot disrespect your body and expect your immune system to function." 

"What do you mean, again? Have I been sick? Did I lose time?" 

The tempo of the low-level anxiety in his belly beats faster, heading toward the frenzied drumming of panic. Oh God, what if he's been with Hannibal for months and he doesn't remember any of it?

"Stay still, please. I will get you an anti-pyretic." 

Hannibal pats his knee and walks away, leaving Will to cook in his own juices. He imagines himself miniaturized, wrapped tightly in a corn husk and heated over an open flame. Hannibal would probably enjoy Will tamales. 

The doctor returns with a perfectly ordinary bottle of Advil and another glass of water. 

"Only two. You'll damage your liver if you continue to overmedicate yourself. I believe you have been ill for quite some time, but the symptoms were masked by your stress and anxiety. I have been treating you with powerful antibiotics since you arrived." 

Will closes his eyes and presses the glass of water against his cheek. God, he's exhausted. He's hardly done anything since he arrived at Hannibal's house, but each world-churning revelation is equal to a 48-hour case session on the scale of Things That Wear Will Out. 

"Where's the infection?" 

Hannibal scratches the tips of his nails down Will's exposed forearm. The goosebumps he raises feel good. 

"I do not know. My first guess would have been your brain, but Dr. Sutcliffe found nothing in his scans. If you do not respond to the antibiotics, we will have more tests done. I want you healthy, Will." 

He sets his water down and slips off of the counter and into Hannibal's open arms. This was where they had sex yesterday, if you could call it that. Apparently fevers make Will horny. This is worse than the time he got hard at a crime scene. 

Will could have sex right now, if Hannibal wanted to, but he could also be happy just resting here. Having Hannibal hold him is like pulling into port after a lifetime spent at sea. Everything, from his hands to his apron, seems crafted to support and soothe Will. 

He doesn't open his eyes when he feels the doctor steering him into the living room and laying him on the couch. 

***

Some time later, Hannibal returns to bring him to the table. Will feels chilled and grimy with sweat. All he really wants to do is take a hot shower. 

When he expresses this wish to Hannibal, he is lifted up by his biceps and lead to the dining room. 

"You will not heal if you do not eat, Will." 

_This is his design_ , Will thinks when he sees the table. 

There are two place settings right next to each other, but only one chair. One of the places lacks silverware. 

He is unsurprised when Hannibal pulls out the chair and draws Will into his lap, but he still feels the need to make some sort of protest. 

"No, Dr. Lecter, I can sit in my own chair. Or I can just reheat something later, I'm really not hungry and I don't want to eat right now." 

Hannibal ignores him, except to stroke Will's hip and arrange a bit of salad on a fork. He eats the first bite himself, then presses his body against Will to murmur the dish's name in his ear. 

Will tries to support some of his own weight by pressing his feet against the floor and tensing his thighs. He might be slim, but he's still a full-grown man, far too heavy to be sitting on laps. 

Hannibal presses lightly at various points along Will's body with his free hand, trying to loosen Will's resolve and cause the man to relax into him. Will takes pleasure in remaining stubborn. 

He shakes his head stiffly when Hannibal lifts the fork to his lips, attempting to move backward despite the immovable force behind him. 

Dr. Lecter bites his neck sharply.

"Are you playing games with me, Will? After I've nursed you through your illness and prepared this meal for us? It's very rude. I wonder what you are trying to accomplish." 

He laps his way down the line of Will's tense neck, sucking and moaning very softly. The salad balanced on the fork in his hand stays perfectly steady, a tiny crumble of goat cheese resting atop a cube of butternut squash. Will watches the fork and tries to ignore the tightening in his pants as Hannibal blatantly scents him. 

"Hmmm. Do you wish our roles were reversed? You could feed me. But I fear I would make a very controlling lapmate, and you a rather skittish chef. Perhaps you only want me to spend more time persuading you… You slept through the dinner preparations, after all. It wasn't fair of me to expect you to open without any foreplay." 

He uses his head rather than his hands to guide Will's mouth down onto his own, bumping their faces together lightly as though he is a horse. Although Will is higher up in this position, there is no doubt who is the dominant one. 

Hannibal is teasing him, catching the corner of his lip between two sharp canines and tugging Will down deeper. There is no hope of holding his own weight now. He concentrates on preventing himself from grinding against Hannibal's thigh. 

Everything feels electrified, and he can taste the bright flavors of the salad in Hannibal's mouth. Drawing on one of the few kissing techniques he remembers, he skates his tongue along the sensitive ridge of Hannibal's hard palate. 

The other man exhales audibly and pulls away, then leers at Will with a hard glint in his eyes. 

"Time to open up, dear one." 

Will's mouth drops open without a thought. Hannibal feeds him the salad, still resting on the fork. He must notice Will's surprise, because he smirks smugly. It was a game all along. Hannibal never lost control, not even for a moment. 

Some part of Will still struggles to believe how easily he rolls over for Hannibal Lecter. 

He opens his mouth for food, swallows, thanks Hannibal, praises the cooking. It seems like so very little compared to what he gets in return. 

The warm solidity of Hannibal's thighs beneath his own, the small approving smiles, the light pats against his hip. And the praise. Will thinks he could get drunk on Hannibal's praise. Only small words, but they mean so much. 

_That's right. My beautiful Will. I'm so glad you're here with me. What a lovely guest you make._

When dinner is over, he wants, he needs to give something to Hannibal in return. Something more than clean dishes. Something special. 

"Um, do you have a guitar? I can play a little, and I'd like to play for you. If you want me to, I mean." 

Hannibal smiles warmly, and takes Will by the waist. 

"I would very much like to hear you play, though I'm afraid you'll have to tune the guitar. Do you often perform?" 

Will follows Hannibal down the hall and through the living room, toward one of the doors that is normally kept closed. 

"No, never. I don't like to be looked at, normally." 

Hannibal lifts his hand from Will's waist, rubbing his back firmly before opening the door. 

"Then I am a very lucky man, about to witness a once-in-a-lifetime performance." 

He crinkles his eyes at Will, and Will feels as though his body is radiating a hot golden light. This is what it is like, to exist in Dr. Lecter's world. It is the incandescent joy of knowing your true purpose, and knowing that you fulfill that purpose exactly. For if you did not, Dr. Lecter would not keep you. 

The room is full of instruments, but he focuses immediately on a Taylor guitar resting on a stand. He doesn't want to get distracted. 

Hannibal sits on the padded piano bench and crosses his legs, still smiling softly at Will, so he drags a wooden stool out and sets it across from Hannibal. He finds himself continuously glancing up to check Hannibal's expression, very nearly the opposite of what he would do with anyone else. His face remains calm and gentle, still smiling slightly. Every time he nods to acknowledge Will's glances, he feels the smooth rush of an endorphin high. This could very easily become addictive. 

When the guitar is fully tuned, he speaks to his knees. 

"Uh, this isn't, um, a love song for you or anything. I haven't played in a really long time and this is all I can remember right now. I hope you like it. It's called [Home to Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhMJk7QknpQ)." 

He begins to play, and a few moments later, to sing. 

_Tell the rose not to bloom,_  
the stream to flow.  
Tell the rain not to fall,  
the tree to grow.  
Tell the high summer sky to lose it's blue.  
But don't tell me that I don't belong with you. 

_You could send me away,_  
and I would go.  
I would go,   
but I would not go too far.  
You could send me home,  
but you would know  
home to me is anywhere you are. 

_When I met you,_  
there was nothing to decide.  
It was simply something happening inside.  
I felt strange for a minute,   
then I knew  
that I finally felt complete when I found you. 

_You could send me away,_  
and I would go.  
I would go,  
but I would not go too far.  
You could send me home,  
but you would know  
home to me is anywhere you are. 

_There are those who_  
never really know their minds.  
They're confused   
and they're not the staying kind.  
They don't know what they're   
really looking for.  
I don't suffer from that problem anymore. 

_You could send me away,_  
and I would go.  
I would go,  
but I would not go too far.  
You could send me home,   
but you would know  
home to me is anywhere you are. 

_You could send me away,_  
and I would go.  
I would go,  
but I would not go too far.  
You could send me home,   
but you would know  
home to me is anywhere you are. 

_You could send me home,_  
but you would know  
home to me is anywhere you are. 

Will finally looks up from the fretboard to see more honest emotion on Hannibal's face than he has ever seen before.

"That was beautiful, Will. Truly beautiful. Who do you play that for?" 

Will looks down to the guitar again, rubbing the strings. His fingers burn, his calluses sloughed off long ago.

"I, uh, never played it for anyone before. But sometimes, when I was younger…I used to imagine that I'd meet someone, and…empathize with them. And it would fit so well that I'd never have to go back to being Will Graham again. I'd just live the rest of my life in a more comfortable skin. It never happened, obviously." 

He rubs the back of his neck. He has a feeling if he looks at Hannibal now, he won't like what he sees. 

"I am glad you continued to be Will Graham. He is my friend." 

Hannibal presses a hand against his shoulder briefly, takes the guitar from him and replaces it on the stand. 

"May we switch places? I am only a beginner guitarist, but perhaps I can play you something on the cello." 

Will gives him a grateful smile without looking up from under his lashes, and plays with the weave of his sweater while Hannibal bows out a mournful song on the cello. 

He has the sudden, strange notion that he is listening to a song being played at Will Graham's funeral. 

***

Later that night, he falls asleep in Hannibal's arms and dreams that he is the Ripper.

He sits in his office, considering a sketch he purchased of a medieval torture device. It is truly a lovely work, depicting a man with his head thrown back by a Heretic's Fork. The fork is attached to a heavy metal collar, and the points press in at the soft places between the clavicles and beneath the chin. The beauty comes from the look of ecstatic anticipation on the man's face. He knows he is about to die.

He wishes to see that look live and in the flesh, so he clears his schedule for the evening and flicks through his rolodex. He finds the card of a particularly conceited IT consultant. As he recalls, the man was exceptionally thin, with wavy hair pushed back to emphasize the cut of his cheekbones. Perfect for reproducing the print.

A quick search of social media informs him that the piglet is attending a concert in downtown Washington with his ex-girlfriend. Inevitably, he will insult the young woman and end up walking to the metrolink station, alone and inebriated. If he cuts across the train tracks to reach the station faster, it will be pure simplicity to drug him and lead him to a storage unit three blocks away. Hunting would be more fun if his swine were not so idiotic, but meat is meat. The real joy comes from cooking it. 

He gathers his tools and disinfects them. This piece requires an instrument that he does not have, but he is an artist and his talents are many. He spends the afternoon at his forge, preparing the iron collar. He makes the tines sharper than they appear in the drawing, and adds a row of spikes inside to pierce the boy's neck. 

He arrives in DC an hour before the concert is set to begin, parks in the commuter lot, and strides down to the tracks to wait. Sure enough, the little piggy stumbles down the incline, bleating about stuck-up bitches who don't put out. 

He strikes. 

Laying the body out across an antique dining table, he begins to paint his picture. The boy can't scream, but his eyes dart back and forth in pure terror. With luck, the paralytic will wear off in time for him to beg for his life. 

But first things first. He makes a series of small incisions with his scalpel, delicately removing stomach and spleen and placing the organs on ice. 

Then he takes his knife and fork and carves the meat. He piles a serving platter high with bloody slices of thigh and buttock. The boy attempts to howl, but it comes out as a grotesque whimper. 

He jabs his utensils into the abdomen and walks around to the head of the table. 

"What is it you would like to say?" 

"'m sorry, so sorry." His face is covered in tears and mucus, and he is shivering. Disgusting animal. 

"Confess." 

"Sorry! I didn't, didn't, didn't mean to hurt her. I only wanted to look, and, and, she said it was okay, she said it was okay. I'm sorry!" 

He grips the back of the boy's skull and slams his chin into his chest, driving the Heretic's Fork deeply through face and chest cavity. 

With his knife and fork, he rips through the rest of the organs. Then he removes the plastic coverings and examines his design. It is perfect. 

***

Will awakens with a start. He is not sweaty. He is not hyperventilating. He is resting comfortably on warm, dry sheets, with his head tucked into Hannibal's chest and the other man's arm curled loosely around him. 

He lifts a hand to lay it against Hannibal's broad chest, feeling his heart beating beneath the skin. He listens to the steady pulse, and he falls back to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy Daughter Day

Wednesday dawns simply and quietly. The sun seems to take a long time with its rising, allowing Hannibal and Will to start their day in dim light, as the watery sun slowly burns away low-hanging fog. 

Something has changed in Will. Overnight his words seem to have dried up and blown away, replaced with a vulnerable trust in Hannibal. He accepts his security anklet gratefully, and holds on to Hannibal's arm as they walk from the parking lot up to his office. 

Will's mind has never before been so silent. Every new sensation is a revelation. _This is what birds sound like when I feel calm. This is how velvet feels when my hands aren't shaking. This is the view from Hannibal's window when it isn't overlaid with nightmares._ He never knew that the world was beautiful. 

Just before the first patient of the day arrives, Will steps carefully into Hannibal's space. He adjusts his feet, places one hand over Hannibal's heart, and looks up into eyes like bloody chocolate. 

"Thank you." 

He tries to convey the profundity of his gratitude through his kiss, but he doesn't know if Hannibal understands. He does know that Hannibal meets him more than halfway, pressing his fingers lightly into Will's waist and sucking on his lower lip. This is how it feels to kiss someone when you are sane. 

Like all beautiful moments, this one must end. Someone knocks a snappy rhythm against the office door, and Hannibal opens it to admit a pathologically cheerful man with male pattern baldness. 

"Hey there, Dr. Lecter! Lovely morning, isn't it?"

He's practically bouncing on his toes, chuckling with the sheer joy of visiting a psychiatrist, when he sees Will.

"Hello there! I've never seen you here before. My name's Matthew Nolan, but you can call me Matt! Hey, you look like the kind of guy who could use a friend. Gimme a call, we'll go bowling. You can never have too many friends!" 

Thankfully, Will doesn't seem to be expected to actually answer this invitation, which was extended without the necessary telephone number. Matt skips his way over to the chaise longue, which Will has always assumed was a joke, and flings himself across it dramatically. Will has never seen anyone so ready to be psychoanalyzed. 

Hannibal is smirking slightly at Will's mystified expression, though the expression is underlaid with what Will suspects is a sincere desire to see Mr. Nolan roasted on a spit. Will clears his throat and offers an awkward wave, retreating to the waiting room to read about how the quest for immortality has shaped human civilization. A surprising number of serial killers harbor delusions of immortality, so the book may prove relevant to his work.

***

Will anticipates that his day will continue to be tranquil. He will read, he will kiss Hannibal between appointments, and he will bask in the golden glow of his silent subconscious. 

Then Abigail shows up, and his peace is shattered. 

She normally reminds him of a cross between Hannibal and Alana: a beautiful teenager, beautifully dressed. But today, she is wearing a purple plaid button-down and a vibrantly red scarf. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail rather than framing her sweet face. Today, she almost looks like she could be Will's daughter. 

He rises awkwardly to his feet, fumbling to find his bookmark and set his book aside, then raises one arm to--pat her? shake her hand? Dear god, why does anyone allow him to interact with teenagers? He lowers his arm and puts both hands in his back pockets. 

"Abigail! Hello. How are you? Are you okay?" 

She laughs at his social ineptitude. 

"I'm fine, Will. Didn't Hannibal tell you? I'm in the "final phase of recovery," so I get day passes now. I picked up one of your dogs from Wolf Trap. We're supposed to spend the afternoon together." 

Interactions with Abigail often feel like a test that Will is failing. He imagines that she is judging him to determine if he is worthy of being the Man who Killed her Father. He doesn't feel worthy. He just feels like a murderer. 

Still, the mention of dogs cheers him up. He hasn't seen his dogs in nearly a week, and he feels as though he will never be able to make up the lost snuggle-time. 

"Which dog did you bring? Wait, how did you get here?" 

Abigail grins at him. Does she know how guilty he feels every time she laughs or smiles? Does she know how hard it is for him to look at her without apologizing for what he did? 

"Um, his name tag says Cooper? He's sort of brown and white, with big pointy ears. He was really excited to see me! And I had my mom's minivan shipped from Minnesota. My lawyer said it was okay." 

She shrugs, setting off a fresh wave of guilt in Will. He's sweating, and the sweat is making his clothing stick, ruining the 'lines' that Hannibal seems to care about. 

Luckily, Hannibal's office door opens and a tall old woman sweeps out. She is dressed all in gray, and she avoids eye contact by looking straight up at the ceiling. Whenever Will tries that technique, he bumps into things. 

Hannibal leans down to kiss Abigail on the cheek, and draws Will into their circle with his other hand. It seems to bring him joy, seeing the two of them together. 

"I apologize for not informing you of Abigail's visit, Will. I did not wish to cause you undue anxiety. Please come into my office for a moment, then you may go. I am sure you are looking forward to seeing your dog." 

In the office, Hannibal crouches to remove Will's anklet. He seems amused by how lost and forlorn Will looks. 

"What is the matter, dear one? Did you not ask me for a visit from Abigail and one of your pets?" 

Will steps closer, allowing Hannibal to embrace him so he can speak more quietly.

"I did, but that was before. Now…I'm afraid. I don't know if I'm ready to be alone with Abigail. What if I upset her, or hurt her? I just would feel a lot better if you were there." 

Hannibal cradles Will's head against his chest, smoothing his hair. 

"I would not have allowed it if I did not think you were ready. Abigail has her cell phone, and I am prepared to leave the office at once should you need me. Do you trust me?"

He pulls back to look Will in the eyes, and his thumb strokes across the smaller man's stubble. 

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." 

He kisses Will softly.

"Trust that I believe you are ready for this." 

They exit the room holding hands, and Abigail raises her eyebrows and pouts. Hannibal ignores her. Will goes red. 

When Hannibal lets go of his hand to push him closer to the girl, he feels distinctly like a shy toddler being encouraged to run off and play. The feeling intensifies when Hannibal pulls out a bubble sheet of clonazepam and tears off two squares. He speaks to Will, but looks at Abigail. 

"These are to be taken one at a time, and only if you feel a panic attack rising. If you need both of them, make sure that you wait at least four hours between doses. I will be home tonight at 7:30." 

Will is actually surprised when Hannibal hands him the pills to put in his pocket. He's beginning to understand that Abigail is his babysitter today, much more so than he is hers. After all, she is stable enough for day trips, while Will can hardly be trusted to hold his own medicine. 

His heart beats faster with every step he takes away from Hannibal's office. He wonders if it is possible to develop a form of agoraphobia centered around a person, rather than a place. He misses his security anklet. 

At the bottom of the stairs, he realizes that Abigail is talking to him. He can't hear her over the rushing in his ears. He takes his pill. 

***

Things get easier after that. He and Abigail make messy sandwiches with the things they find in Hannibal's refrigerator, enjoying the freedom to use too much mustard and drop crumbs onto their knees. 

Abigail had brought a bag of food, treats, and toys from his house, along with a playful little pup. Will appreciates her practicality. 

After feeding Cooper, they take him out to the backyard and sit on the steps. Abigail throws a squeaky purple ball to Cooper, who runs as fast as he can toward the cedar fence before circling back around to drop it at her feet. He seems determined to prove to her that she made the right choice in taking him to visit this place. 

Will manages to fumble his way through a conversation about his dogs, which segues into a discussion of potential college majors. Abigail is leaning toward psychology or criminal justice. Will encourages elementary education. He wants her to get away from this life. 

Cooper flops down at their feet for belly rubs, and Will and Abigail stay quiet for a few minutes. Will feels as though he is existing in a gray haze. Perhaps he is made of computer code, and he is currently floating through a virtual world. Without Hannibal nearby, everything takes on a two-dimensional quality.

Abigail interrupts his thoughts.

"So, are you and Hannibal sleeping together?"

She elbows him lightly in the side, but there's something more than teasing in her tone. Will adjusts his glasses.

"I don't think that's really an appropriate question, do you?" 

She shrugs, brushing her hand against his as she pets Cooper. Physical contact makes Will feel ill, unless it comes from Hannibal. 

"So if I were to go upstairs, I wouldn't find all your stuff in the master bedroom?" 

Will flinches, but he manages to find a sarcastic response.

"Not many people would dare to snoop in Hannibal's bedroom. He would consider it rude." 

Abigail leans against his shoulder. She must know how uncomfortable he is. But maybe she needs the contact. After all, it's Will's fault her parents are dead. Maybe they were more affectionate than he and Hannibal. 

"Hannibal lets me get away with rudeness." 

Her hair is tickling his cheek.

"Me too." 

Abigail pulls a bone from the bag behind her, and Cooper runs off to the corner of the yard to gnaw on it in peace.

"What do you think that means?" 

Will sighs. 

"I don't know. Maybe he just thinks we've suffered enough. We've earned the right to be rude." 

Abigail waits a long minute before replying, and when she does, her voice sounds bitter.

"I think it's because he doesn't need to punish us. We're already caught in the spider's web, and anything we do now just amuses him." 

Will needs to tread cautiously now. He doesn't know how much Abigail actually knows.

"Why do you refer to Dr. Lecter as a spider? Most people would see him as a saviour, taking in strays the way he does." 

He holds himself still, except to enunciate carefully. He doesn't fidget during important conversations. When she speaks, Abigail sounds very young.

"Did you know that he feeds us people?" 

Will startles visibly, and Abigail laughs at his distress.

"How do you know that?" 

She looks him in the eye and holds his gaze.

"Oh Will. He's not the first cannibal I've known, remember? I recognize the _taste._ " 

Will swallows, and whispers,

"I can't leave him. He's the only thing keeping me sane. If I leave here, I'll die. What do you expect me to do?" 

She stares at him dispassionately with clear blue eyes.

"That thing you did last time worked pretty well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter beat the crap out of me. I have seriously been agonizing over it for a week. I wrote an entirely different version where Will and Abigail had super-fun times and giggled and played chess. Then I realized that Abigail is not like that. She is a difficult girl to write, but at least I got to be mean to Will Graham. Some days that's the only thing that keeps me going. That, and trying to perfect the cryptic/dramatic scene closer. 
> 
> ps. Thank you for reading. I love you guys a lot. 
> 
> ps again: The chipper patient was based on Bill Murray in Little Shop of Horrors.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Somewhat dubious consent in this chapter. See endnotes if you need details, and please avoid triggering yourself.

Abigail leaves the house before Hannibal returns. She has to take Cooper back to Wolf Trap and check in at the hospital by 8:30 for evening meds. Will hugs her goodbye, but he hugs the dog longer.

In his brief moment of solitude, Will sits on the kitchen floor and stares at his bare toes. He feels he has determined the main problem with selling your soul to the devil: you are doomed to chase the devil for the rest of your life, yearning for your lost soul.

He wonders how long his body would survive without its soul in close proximity. It's been about seven hours since he last saw Hannibal, and already he feels like a stone statue that is crumbling to dust, starting at his very center. 

This is comforting; if Hannibal were to die, Will would soon be crushed to a fine powder, and then he could join Hannibal in Hell. He doesn't think he would mind that very much. He already spends a lot of time sweaty and uncomfortable. 

Will falls over sideways and presses his cheek against the cool floor. Hannibal said he would be home by 7:30. It is now 7:17. 

_My name is Will Graham. It is 7:17 pm. I am in Baltimore, Maryland. I am waiting for my Hannibal._

He repeats varying versions of his mantra for 11 more minutes, until Hannibal finally arrives home at 7:28 pm. 

He doesn't say anything when he opens the door. Will hears him hang up his coat and scarf and set his briefcase on the table, and then large hands are pulling him up and into a hug. He is just the right height to hide his face in Hannibal's shoulder and allow himself to be patted and soothed. Last week, he would have been ashamed of himself, but today he feels a little bit proud. He did a hard thing, staying at the house without Hannibal. 

When he finally pulls back, he sees that Hannibal looks proud, too. Will smiles his true smile, the one that has been hiding for the last several months, and pushes forward again to kiss Hannibal. 

He kisses his smiling mouth, and the aristocratic lines that surround it. He kisses his high, perfect cheekbones, and giggles when he kisses Hannibal's nose. He presses long, sultry kisses down Hannibal's jawbone and into the meat of his neck, and he tries biting gently at the skin there. 

The biting causes Hannibal to make a soft, rasping sound in the back of his throat, and then he stops Will with a hand to his chest. 

"I missed you, too, dear Will. But we will have time for our greetings later. For now, I was hoping I could count on your assistance in preparing supper." 

Will nods, and runs a hand through his hair. With Hannibal, food never falls by the wayside. He washes his hands and helps the chef prepare Fennel, Orange, and Walnut Salad with Smoked Paprika Vinaigrette. 

He cannot be trusted to shave fennel on a mandolin, but he is fully capable of peeling oranges, chopping walnuts, and shaking the dressing ingredients in a Mason jar. 

While he concentrates on his task, Hannibal prepares the entree: Sous Vide Tenderloin, Pickled Mustard Seeds, Truffle Buttermilk Puree, Mushrooms, and Honey Rum Glaze. Despite its complicated accoutrements, Will knows that Hannibal is most proud of the bright pink tenderloin, which was surely not purchased from the humane butcher. 

He swallows that thought and concentrates on squeezing out 3 tablespoons of lemon juice. Most of the juice ends up on his hands rather than in the little bowl, and Hannibal snags him around the waist and sucks gently on his first two fingers. 

Will turns to him hopefully--perhaps dinner can wait after all--but Hannibal shutters his eyes and nudges Will in the direction of the sink. He washes his hands again and returns to the pantry. Is grape seed oil the same thing as rapeseed oil? Does it matter? He asks Hannibal. The answers are no and yes, respectively. 

***

Eating the salad brings Will a sense of fulfillment. He helped make dinner, and now he is telling his lover about his dogs while they eat. It feels normal, like something out of a television show. He never thought his life could be this way. 

Then Hannibal retreats to the kitchen and returns with the main course. Will tries to maintain his rare moment of normality. He stares down at the round, rosy meat, and he feels himself getting lost in the details of it. The tiny wrinkles and cracks in the flesh…Hannibal clears his throat, and Will jerks up from where his nose was almost touching his supper.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on cutting the meat. Small, neat triangles…none of which actually make it to his mouth. Hannibal refuses to take pity on him. He is waiting for Will to ask for help. 

He remains stubborn for a few more moments, carefully decorating his meat with the pickled mustard seeds, but finally he gives in and walks around the table to Hannibal, plate in hand. 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows.

"I can't." 

Will falls to his knees beside Hannibal's chair and leans his head against the other man's thigh. He knows that he is displaying classic signs of submission, but it feels so natural when he is with Hannibal. And he truly cannot feed himself tonight. 

Hannibal strokes Will's cheek with one hand and holds his fork in the other, alternating between feeding himself and feeding Will, as he had done the night before. 

Yet he still withholds the verbal affirmations that Will craves. He must want something else from Will first. 

"Hannibal." 

"Yes, Will?" 

He feeds him a bite of sweet, juicy meat.

"Would you ever abandon me?" 

Hannibal eats a tiny mushroom and cards his left hand through Will's hair. 

"No, dear one. I would not leave you alive." 

Dark though it may be, Will finds this reassuring. Still, he has to be sure. 

"What if something happened to you, and I was still alive? What should I do then?" 

Hannibal tips Will's head up, looking down into his guileless blue eyes. 

"My loyal boy. I will never abandon you. As long as you are alive, you will not escape me." 

Will slumps against Hannibal's leg. 

Several long minutes pass, and their plates are nearly empty, before Will works up the nerve to ask his next question. 

"I want you. Please?" 

Hannibal lifts Will up until they are both standing. His dark, half-lidded eyes no longer look amused or accommodating, but his words remain courteous.

"You are my dinner guest, Will, and I don't wish to slight you. Would you be offended if we postponed dessert for a short while?" 

Will stares at him. 

"No. No, I wouldn't be offended. What is _wrong_ with you?" 

And then Hannibal is laughing, and Will is growling, and silverware is clattering to the floor. 

***

They make it to the bedroom eventually, after much stumbling and crashing into walls (all of it Will's fault). Even as he strips off his vest and leers at Will's bare chest, Hannibal manages to look like a nobleman performing a particularly raucous ballroom dance. Will looks like a young wolf, thrashing and snapping as he struggles to get out of his clothes and just _touch_ Hannibal, touch all of him.

He lunges at his lover, who is still fully dressed except for his vest, jacket, and shoes. Will whines, lapping and nibbling at Hannibal's neck and humping the other man's legs unconsciously. 

He is so far gone that his pupils have dilated almost to full size, with only a thin sliver of blue iris showing around the rims. When he starts to suck a mark onto Hannibal's skin, the older man pushes him back firmly. 

"Will. Take off the rest of your clothes, put them in the hamper, and lay on your back on the bed." 

Will relaxes instantly. He had been feeling feral, but the order reminds him that he has been tamed, and his master will look after him. His heart is still thumping out a savage tattoo, but he is able to close his eyes half-way and watch as Hannibal undresses. 

He looks like a boxer, or a Russian spy. His muscles are heavy and masculine, quite unlike the smooth oiled chests that Will sees in commercials and on shopping bags. He looks like the sort of man who could kill you a rabbit with his bare hands, and then drink a fifth of bourbon while you cooked it. 

Will reaches a hand around himself, squeezing lazily, but he quickly withdraws it when Hannibal gives him a look. He wants to be good. 

Finally, Hannibal is naked, stalking toward Will with a small bottle of scented oil in one hand. He lowers himself down until they are chest to chest, then changes the angle so that he is looking down at Will's face while his stomach puts pressure against Will's groin. 

Hannibal smiles then, and strokes Will's cheek. His kisses seem hotter and wetter than they have ever been before, and Will wonders briefly if his fever has returned. Then Hannibal tweaks one of his nipples roughly, and Will _squeaks_. 

The noise becomes a whimper and then a moan as Hannibal continues to focus on the small pink buds. He stretches one up as far as it will go before allowing it to snap back into Will's chest, shooting a burst of pleasure-pain straight to the very core of him. He cries out again, and Hannibal chuckles.

"So responsive, such a good boy. I knew you would be. Did you know, I can see them through your shirt when you are excited. Such sweet little things, all for me. My good Will." 

Hannibal drops his mouth to suckle at a nipple while Will gasps and thrashes his head back and forth. He can feel Hannibal doing something with his hands, but he doesn't take any notice until the larger man levers himself up and rubs a slick finger across Will's cleft. 

He spreads his legs further and arches up, trying to encourage the action, but Hannibal goes at his own tempo. He runs one strong finger from the base of Will's spine to his perineum over and over again, barely dipping into his hole on each pass. 

"H-hannibal. Please, I need…more." 

Hannibal pulls himself up to kiss Will's mouth again, and Will winds his hands around Hannibal's neck. He doesn't ever want to let go, doesn't ever want to lose this. Then Hannibal pushes in one thick finger and Will clenches around it greedily. 

He's growling again, begging for more, "I wanna take you all in, please. I want to consume you, and keep you in me forever. _Hannibal_!" 

The psychiatrist ignores Will's pleas and continues to stretch him slowly and steadily. Will is practically in pieces on the sheets, and Hannibal hasn't even broken a sweat. 

Finally, finally, he withdraws his fingers and rolls on a condom, and that's the moment when Will's mind breaks and he sits up in terror. 

"Oh god, please! I can't…I can't remember who I am, or, or, what I am, I don't know. Help me, _please!_ " 

And Hannibal is there, still poised at his entrance, but with his face curled into Will's neck and his hands stroking Will's flanks.

"Repeat after me. My name is Will Graham." 

"Will Graham," he whispers weakly. 

"It is sometime after 10 pm." 

"Sometime after 10 pm," he repeats, starting to feel a little saner. 

"I am in Baltimore, Maryland." 

"I am in…Minnesota? What am I doing here?" 

Hannibal presses Will's hands down into the bed and touches their foreheads together.

"No. You are in Baltimore, Maryland, and Hannibal Lecter is making love to you." 

Will tries.

"I am in Baltimore, Maryland…and I'm making love to Will Graham." 

Hannibal chuckles softly.

"That's close enough, dear Will." 

And he pushes inside. 

This sensation should not be so overwhelming. Will has had sex before, other men have been where Hannibal is now, and yet, it has never felt like this. Like Hannibal is penetrating more than just his body. 

He pulses his hips up in quick half-thrusts that form a double-time counterpoint to Hannibal's longer, slower strokes. As Hannibal's rhythm becomes faster and more vicious, Will closes his teeth around a wedge of shoulder muscle, and the rapid friction of their fucking allows him to wear a deep, bloody mark into Hannibal's shoulder. 

Their grunts and groans mix with the squeaking of the bed to form a violent symphony, and every smooth thrust of Hannibal's body rubs against Will's cock between them. 

Hannibal grips Will's shoulder, squeezes hard enough to leave a bruise, and then growls his command into Will's open, gasping mouth. 

"Come now, dear one." 

And Will comes. He scratches deeply into Hannibal's muscular back, and his orgasm seems to take him into another pocket of the universe. Distantly, he feels Hannibal pressing and shaking above him, feels the moment when his entire body tightens up like rigor mortis, and then Hannibal collapses onto him, warm and loose and human. 

***

After Will has been cleaned and cuddled and wrapped in silk pajamas, they return to the kitchen. Will washes the dishes while Hannibal soaks ripe peaches in honey and whips the mascarpone in one of his shiny metal bowls. 

Will still feels…untethered. He has to make sure Hannibal understands him.

He pauses, staring down at his wrinkled hands in the sink full of soapy water.

"Hannibal." 

The other man looks up from his bowl.

"I love you." 

Hannibal rubs his hands on a dish towel and spins Will around, cupping his stubbled cheeks in two warm hands.

"My dear Will. It is rare for me to become as fond of a person as I am of you." 

Will kisses him sweetly, recognizing that for Hannibal, this declaration expresses a devotion just as deep as Will's. 

The kiss tastes like peaches and honey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent issues: Will and Hannibal both want sex, but Will is not exactly in his right mind. Hannibal makes some attempt to correct for Will's mental instability, but it's still a bit iffy. 
> 
> Food links:
> 
> [Salad](http://snailsview.com/2011/02/22/twosaladsandamandolin/)
> 
> [Meat](http://foodporndaily.com/pictures/sous-vide-pork-tenderloin-pickled-mustard-seeds-truffle-buttermilk-puree-mushrooms-and-honey-rum-glaze/)
> 
> [Peaches](http://www.fifteenspatulas.com/grilled-peaches-with-mascarpone-and-pistachios/)
> 
> (I stole bluesyturtle's thing where she uses real recipes in her stories, because I admire her as an author and I want to be more like her.) 
> 
> Thank you to astrakiseki for talking to me a lot and being a star human.
> 
> There will be one more chapter and an epilogue.


	15. Chapter 15

Will wakes before Hannibal does the next morning, and burrows under Hannibal's arm so he can inhale his scent. He has a plan, but he doesn't know if he'll actually be able to carry it out. 

He runs the plan through his various mind filters. Jack would approve. Alana would disapprove. Hannibal would possibly approve, but there is no way to ask him. No matter what, it will be a risk. 

He bumps his face against the warm silk of Hannibal's side and settles on taking a less dangerous risk, for now. 

He crawls down the bed until he is perpendicular to Hannibal's hip, and stares up at the man's sleeping face for a long moment. Then he carefully lowers Hannibal's pajamas and boxers to just below his scrotum, and holds his breath for a moment. Hannibal doesn't wake.

Will traces his fingertips lightly around the flaccid organ. He has never had the chance to explore anyone else's soft cock. The skin is cooler than it would be hard, but still warm. He drags the silky foreskin up and down, and Hannibal huffs and turns his head. 

Will does not want to lose his chance. He allows himself one moment of inhaling the scent hidden in wiry pubic hair, and then he sucks the entire cock into his mouth. 

He has never done this with a soft cock, either. It makes him feel powerful. He smiles around his mouthful and begins to thoroughly lick everything that he can reach. As Hannibal hardens in his mouth, more slips out until he has only about a third of the length. 

Will looks up to see Hannibal gazing down at him, arms tucked under his head. 

"Good morning," he says softly. 

Will doesn't want to speak with his mouth full, so he hums instead and grins when Hannibal rasps a sound in the back of his throat. 

When Hannibal spreads his legs slightly, Will crawls over them so he is positioned more conveniently, lying propped up on an elbow with his feet hanging off the end of the bed. 

That accomplished, he sets a proper rhythm, bobbing up and down and twisting his free hand around the base. Will's gag reflex is far too sensitive to even attempt deep-throating, but he tries to make up for it with fancy tongue work. 

He pushes the foreskin up slightly with his hand, then circles his tongue between the head and the foreskin. Hannibal reaches down with one hand to rub behind Will's ear, which he takes as encouragement. He never realized how satisfying it could be to get someone else off.

He tries tonguing at Hannibal's slit, which earns him a low noise and a tug on his hair. Then Hannibal squeezes the back of his neck and presses lightly at his skull. Will takes the hint and speeds up, lashing his tongue back and forth along the underside of Hannibal's cock as he moves. 

Finally, Hannibal yanks hard at Will's curls and comes with a strangled groan. A distant part of Will's mind registers that Hannibal's semen is not nearly as bitter as that of other men, though he would have swallowed regardless. It must be due to his careful diet. 

He licks his lips and lays his head on Hannibal's thigh to catch his breath. Hannibal reaches down to pet him again.

"That was quite a way to wake up. Did you have a particular reason?" 

Will shrugs and plays with the silk of Hannibal's pajamas, counting the blue stripes and using them to measure his fingers. The length of his thumb is equal to the width of six stripes. 

"I woke first, and I wanted to. Was it okay?" 

Hannibal is still using his sleepy fond voice. It is Will's favorite of his voices, low and warm. 

"My dear, it was wonderful. Why don't you come up here and allow me to reciprocate?" 

Will doesn't really want to leave the game he is playing with the pajamas, but he crawls up obediently. He is half-hard, but it's not a particularly pressing need. 

He lays his head on Hannibal's shoulder and looks up. The older man quirks one eyebrow before bending over Will and kissing him long and deep. He holds Will's face in his hands, stroking over his cheekbones with his thumbs, and Will's eyes flutter shut. He senses, rather than sees, when Hannibal swings a leg over and holds his body up a few inches above Will.

"Open your eyes, Will." 

His accent is still heavy, making the vowels raspy and ovoid. Will opens, and finds himself nose to nose with his lover, forced to stare deep into his eyes. He tries to categorize them. Dark brown, with coppery red flecks. A deep pink ring around the centers, the color of rare meat. One eye holds a splinter of bloody pink radiating out from the pupil. The other does not. 

Then Hannibal reaches into Will's shorts and he has to use all of his focus just to keep himself together. 

Hannibal kisses Will as he strokes him, rubbing his thumb firmly over the head and spreading precum down his length. He keeps his eyes open, and so does Will. 

At first he thinks that Hannibal is trying to force Will to read him, but with a sudden moment of calm, he realizes it is the other way around. Hannibal is trying to disarm him with sex and eye contact so he can figure out what Will is planning. And it isn't working. Will chuckles and breaks the kiss, tucking his face down into his lover's neck and thrusting his hips more steadily into Hannibal's hand. 

After he comes, he makes eye contact again briefly, trying to look innocent and overwhelmed. Hannibal looks as though he can't settle his expression into either compassionate or calculating, so instead he goes to the bathroom to wash his hands. 

***

Will is trusted to help in the kitchen now. He's had enough breakfasts here to set the table, prepare the coffee (though Hannibal never fails to correct his technique), and wash the fruit. 

Once he's finished everything he is allowed to do, he wraps his arms around Hannibal's waist and tucks his chin over his shoulder to watch him stir "turkey" gravy. 

He half-expects to be pinched for disrupting Hannibal's cooking, but Hannibal seems to consider it and then decide to keep the morning peaceful. 

"You are being very affectionate today, Will. Have you thought about what you will do when your week of vacation is over?" 

Just then the oven timer dings, and Hannibal glances at Will to indicate that he should take the biscuits out. It gives him the moment he needs to consider his answer. 

"I'll go back to the Academy, but not back to the field. Those who can't do, teach, after all. And I want to go home to Wolf Trap, to take care of my dogs." 

As Will flips the biscuits onto a separate tray to cool, he flicks an eye over to where Hannibal standing, straight and tense. 

"I see." 

Will smirks very slightly, and says nothing as he carries the tray into the dining room and returns to the kitchen. Then he speaks.

"I would also like to continue our personal relationship. If that's something you want." 

He licks his lips and continues carefully. 

"It has been rewarding for me." 

Hannibal removes the gravy from the stove, using a wooden spoon to direct it neatly into a white gravy boat. His dark eyes are inscrutable as he carries the gravy into the dining room. 

"I have also found it so. I am willing to let you return to Wolf Trap, but there will be limits. I would much prefer if you stayed with me on the weekends." 

Will sits down and splits a biscuit in half. 

"I would prefer that too." 

***

While Hannibal is in his office, Will reads in the waiting room again. Some people might find his 'vacation' a little boring, but he needed the rest. He spreads his limbs to fill the whole chair, knees wide apart, arm thrown over one side, and head tilted back. The power stance is obvious, though unconscious, and Hannibal smirks slightly when he sees him sitting that way. 

But why shouldn't he? He is no longer a hostage or a pet. He is not wearing a security anklet. He doesn't need to tense or cower, bent over his knees, ready to bolt. He is an adult man, reading comfortably while he waits for his lover. 

Will reads about the four paths to immortality, and he wonders which one Hannibal would find most compelling. Staying alive, bodily resurrection, survival of the soul, or survival through legacy? Will does believe in souls, and ghosts, but he thinks Hannibal would prefer to live on in infamy. He would want future generations to be horrified and inspired by his works, and it would give him pleasure to imagine his traps and schemes causing pain even as his body rots underground. 

Personally, Will hopes that after he dies, he ceases to exist. He doesn't want to go to Hell, not really, and heaven is not for men such as he. He doesn't want to wander the earth as a lost soul, or be reborn to live another terrible lifetime. He's enjoying his game with Hannibal, but it's not enough to make him want to live forever.

***

Will comes into Hannibal's office at lunchtime, as is their custom. While Hannibal is unpacking the food, Will goes over to his desk and removes the silver scalpel from its fine case. He runs the blade across his thumb and sucks off the blood, then looks up to see Hannibal frozen in place, staring at him.

"Will. What are you doing?" 

Will tilts his head and bites his lip, then begins to walk slowly around the desk. He lists off the facts that have led to his actions.

"I love you. You promised you would stay with me even after you died. You also want me to kill people. So I thought, why not start with you? What do I have to lose?" 

Hannibal turns to face Will fully, and reaches forward as though to pluck the scalpel from Will's hand. Will tightens his grip and takes a step back. 

"You could lose our Abigail. Killing one father is forgivable, but two? I think not." 

Hannibal is playing at being stern and disapproving. Will laughs out loud and steps back into the other man's space, pushing him down into one of the chairs.

"Who do you think gave me the idea? I can't fail her again, Hannibal. Now kiss me, before I kill you." 

He climbs up to straddle Hannibal's lap, loosening his tie and stroking one finger down his lips. The lips lift into a genuine smile and Hannibal bares his teeth. 

"I was curious what the two of you would do. I see now that you were both worthy of my affection. But you will not really kill me, dear one." 

Will laughs again, louder, and his handsome face fractures to reveal a mad wolf, hungry for sex and blood. 

"Watch me." 

As he leans down to steal his kiss, Hannibal wraps his hands around Will's biceps hard enough to bruise. His grip is tight, and he succeeds in biting off a chunk of Will's lower lip, but he took too long. He thought Will was bluffing. 

Will stabs the scalpel into Hannibal's neck again and again, wielding the tool in a way that it was never meant to be used. But it's a sharp piece of metal, and he's a madman. It gets the job done. 

He kisses Hannibal even as he kills him, licking and moaning into his mouth. The blade pierces Hannibal's esophagus, and Will drinks the blood that bubbles up from his throat. 

When he feels the life leaving his lover's body, he throws his weapon across the room and cuddles into Hannibal's bloody shoulder. 

As he strokes the man's shredded neck and rubs his face in the blood, he whispers, "I love you, Hannibal." 

Hannibal's last words are more like a series of gasping, bubbling grunts, but Will imagines that he says, "And I love you, Will Graham." 

***

He spends several minutes just cuddling with Hannibal's body, wrapping the dead man's arms around himself and licking those beautiful cheekbones. In death, Hannibal looks much older and much less threatening. 

After a while, he starts to feel tense and jittery. He reaches into Hannibal's pocket and attempts to figure out his cellphone through the blood clumping in his eyelashes. 

Finally, he manages to call Jack. 

"Dr. Lecter. Is Graham ready to come back yet? We could use him." 

"Hey Jack, it's me. I just killed Hannibal in his office, so you should probably come and get the body. I'm not really strong enough to move him, and I don't want to burn him in his chair. It's a really nice chair." 

He hears Jack knock something over, and settles himself so he's sideways in Hannibal's lap, with an arm over his lap. It's too cold and limp to be real, but he can pretend. 

"The fuck are you talking about, Will? What the hell is going on? Put Lecter on the phone, okay? You're…hallucinating or something. Fuck."

Will giggles. 

"I'll hold the phone up to him, but he won't talk to you. He's dead now. He only talks to me." 

He holds the phone up to Hannibal's ear, and briefly hears Jack shouting and cursing, before he throws the phone across the room and snuggles down into Hannibal's shoulder to wait. 

Forever is a little much, but he thinks he'll enjoy the rest of this life.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Mads is Danish, so he is almost certainly uncircumcised. Less than 2% of Danish men are circumcised. Hannibal is Lithuanian, but I couldn't find any data on the prevalence of circumcision among Lithuanian men, so I went with the Danish figures. I have very little practical experience with uncut penises, so all foreskin knowledge is theoretical. The link to the wikipedia article on Prevalence of Circumcision was already purple when I started researching this chapter.  
> 2\. Hannibal has red eyes, but Mads has brown eyes. Thus, my Hannibal's eyes are completely fictional. I'm pretty sure that pattern of iris coloration doesn't exist in nature, but you can find similar patterns with, for instance, green and gold.  
> 3\. Will is still reading Immortality by Stephen Cave. It's an alright book, if you like that sort of thing. I've finished it and started on Female Serial Killers by Peter Vronsky, which is awesome and highly recommended. (I assume you guys like that sort of thing.)


	16. Chapter 16

_Epilogue_

_Two years later_

Will hears the other prisoners hooting and catcalling, but he doesn't pay any attention. He is lying back between Hannibal's legs, and Hannibal is murmuring a dark Spanish love poem in his ear. 

Then he sees Alana. 

He straightens up, and Hannibal moves back to the corner of the bed. 

"Will, it's over. They know you weren't the Ripper now. They know it was Hannibal."

She twists her hands, and Will tries to smile encouragingly. Alana does not look encouraged. 

"They've decided that you killed him in self-defense. You'll be moved to a psychiatric ward tomorrow." 

He blinks at her. 

"Is Hannibal coming with me?" 

Alana looks floored. She hasn't been to see him at all since he's been here, and he doesn't remember much of the trial. She might not have been there, either. 

"Will… Hannibal is dead. You, you killed him. He's not coming with you." 

Will tilts his head and wrinkles his eyebrows. 

"I know I killed him, but he's not dead. They put us in the same cell. Hannibal says that even the wardens know better than to get in the way of true love." 

Now Alana looks as though her heart is breaking. Will glances over his shoulder and sees Hannibal smirking. He's become much less controlled during their incarceration. Now he always shows what he's thinking on his face. 

"Will, honey, you know that's not true. Have you been seeing Hannibal all this time? Is he…haunting you?" 

Will looks down at himself and smiles. He reaches back to take Hannibal's hand. 

"He's not _haunting_ me, Dr. Bloom. He's in love with me. We talk, and make love. Sometimes I sing to him. He was reciting Pablo Neruda when you arrived." 

Alana looks like she might vomit. 

"Look, Will, you know that's not real. I've talked to the doctors who are going to be overseeing your care. We'll make sure you get the medication you need to get back on track. You don't have to be afraid of him anymore, do you understand?" 

Will nods, seriously. He understands. Hannibal will tell him what to do. 

Hannibal whispers, _This is our chance, dear one. You must pretend not to see me. That's the only way to get them to release you, so we can begin our new life together. I know you're hungry._

Will is so very hungry. So he allows himself to look sad and confused, and whispers,

"I know he's not really here, but I've been so lonely. Sometimes I like to pretend. And he _did_ love me. I knew he'd let himself be caught eventually, so that I wouldn't have to stay here anymore." 

He looks up at Alana with big, innocent eyes. She looks relieved. 

"It's okay, Will. We're going to help you now. Everything's going to be okay." 

He hears her heels click down the hallway, hears the other men shouting obscenities. He waits until she is gone, and then he rolls over to pin Hannibal to the bed. 

Everything is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, folks! It has been an amazing journey, and you can find me flailing around on [tumblr](http://without-a-license.tumblr.com/) if you want to. 
> 
> I'd like to thank all of my regular commenters, and the irregular ones, too. You guys are the best, and I love you all in a distant, internetty way.


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